


The Golden Age

by bertie456 (bertee)



Category: Bones (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, Mythology - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-13
Updated: 2007-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-27 19:56:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 24,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bertee/pseuds/bertie456
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The impure will be purged and then the Golden Age will come again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

"You're gonna have to face it, you're addicted to love..."

Forgetting the rest of the words, he hummed some semblance of the tune to himself as he strolled confidently down the brightly lit, clinically decorated corridors of the Jeffersonian. Passing a well-polished window, he glanced briefly to the side and smirked approvingly on seeing that he still looked remarkably good after a long day at work. A cocky smile spread across his face as he thought about what, or rather who, he would be doing that night and he unconsciously repeated the song under his breath, "Might as well face it, you're addicted to love."

Rounding the corner, his smile grew wider as he saw his partner for the evening sitting at her desk with her back to him. Sipping his coffee, he paused to observe her as she stood and leaned forward to retrieve a file from the opposite side of the desk, still unaware of his presence. He watched appreciatively as her skirt rode higher when she bent over further, exposing the backs of her creamy thighs and allowing him a glimpse of the black lacy panties hidden under her demure clothing.

He grinned darkly to himself, feeling a rush of arousal at knowing that she was wearing them for him. No matter how many women he'd been with, he still got a kick out of them dressing up to please him. His grin turned predatory as he looked back over at the woman before him, wondering if he could get her to repeat that position tonight in the privacy of their room, only this time without the panties.

His fantasising was interrupted by the shrill ring of the cell phone in his pocket. Without taking his eyes off the woman at the desk in front of him, he held it to his ear, answering automatically, "Matt Richards."

His heart sank as the unmistakable voice of his wife greeted him sweetly through the phone, "Hey honey, it's me."

Rolling his eyes, he answered without enthusiasm, "Hey Cath. What's up?"

"I was just wondering what time you'd be home," his wife asked timidly. "It's just, I was thinking maybe we could have dinner tonight. You know, since we've not really spent much time together recently."

Matt sighed inwardly. He was fully aware they hadn't spent much time together recently. He had however spent a lot of quality time with Janine from the cafeteria and Anna from the gift shop, and was currently hoping to spend that evening with Sally from Reception. He glanced over at his intended conquest and saw she was now facing him, her brown eyes wide and inquiring.

Flashing her a broad smile, he promptly turned away, speaking quietly so as not to arouse suspicion from either his wife or his mistress, "Listen, sweetheart, that sounds so great, but something's come up at work."

"Again? That's what you said on Tuesday." The annoyance in her voice was evident and Matt cursed himself for not keeping better track of his excuses.

"I know, baby, I know," he said in what he hoped was a soothing tone of voice. "But the damn FBI have been doing security checks all day. All the guards have to be interviewed and they want me to hang round in case there are any problems with anyone."

He held his breath, hoping she would buy it, and breathed a sigh of relief when she replied, somewhat reluctantly, "Well, I suppose you have to do your job."

"I knew you'd understand," he said, trying to keep the elation out of his voice. "Goodnight sweetheart. Don't wait up."

Hanging up before she could protest, Matt turned back to Sally, throwing his empty coffee cup in the trash with a casual shrug, "Damn FBI. They've been pestering me about these security checks all day."

Twirling a strand of hair around her fingers, she smiled seductively at him, "Guess that's what happens when you're chief of security for the _whole_ Jeffersonian."

Matt chuckled slightly at her comment. Every woman he'd been with in the three months he'd been working at the Jeffersonian had made a similar remark about his job. Maybe it was the title, maybe it was the uniform, but whatever it was, it worked like a charm. Just the words "Chief of Security" made them putty in his hands and he was finally starting to get some of the action normally reserved for FBI agents or firemen. The fact he had a wife was only a minor complication.

But his wife wasn't on his mind now. Sally was. All 5 foot 9 of her. Wandered over to her, he slipped his arm easily round her waist and pulled her close, smiling as she blushed at his forward approach. Running his hand up her side, he flicked the top button of her shirt open, revealing a little more cleavage than was previously on view. Laughing, she moved to redo it, but he gently grasped her wrist, holding it away.

"Leave it," he whispered, his tone firm yet playful. "I promise, no-one's going to object." She let her hand drop back to her side and he stroked her cheek softly, "Good girl." Leaning in, he captured her lips with his and could almost feel her melting into his arms. Her hands moved up to his dark blond hair, but he stepped away swiftly before the embrace went any further.

She looked at him with puzzlement and he responded with a slight shake of the head, "Not here. I'll meet you at Motel 6 at 9 tonight and we can be together properly."

Enraptured, Sally nodded, "I'll see you there?"

Answering her with a final kiss on the lips, Matt Richards broke away quickly and headed out of the Jeffersonian without looking back. He knew that Sally would be watching him leave and he congratulated himself smugly as he mentally added her to his list of conquests, somewhat prematurely.

Thinking back to the last three months in his new job, he was suddenly very glad that he'd applied for the position at the Jeffersonian. In all honesty, he was surprised he'd got it, since he'd assumed it would go to someone who was older than his thirty-six years, but looking at the women who worked here, he was incredibly thankful that he had.

His point was further illustrated as another attractive woman walked quickly past him, her light brown hair bouncing on her shoulders as she headed back into the Jeffersonian's Medico-Legal lab. Always the (apparent) gentleman, he gave her a polite nod as he greeted her, "Evening, Dr Brennan."

Unsurprisingly, she didn't acknowledge him, and Matt doubted if she'd even heard him as she dashed back inside, clearly preoccupied with something more important than him. Nevertheless, he couldn't help but watch as she went, impressed that even the science-types at the Jeffersonian were nice to look at.

However, he was fully aware that looking was as far as he could go in some cases, including that of Dr Brennan. Normally he didn't have a problem with women who already had a boyfriend or husband, since he was fairly certain that he would win if it came to a fight. His machismo had its limits though, and taking on a sniper-trained FBI agent, who was reputedly screwing the good Dr Brennan, was definitely further than he was willing to go, no matter how hot the girl was. But that didn't stop him looking.

Eyes fixed on her retreating form, he continued to wander crookedly down the corridor, but was brought back to reality with a jolt as he collided hard with the cart of the elderly janitor who was coming the other way. Straightening his jacket, he muttered an insincere apology before hurrying away again, cursing under his breath as he went and rubbing his bruised hip.

Reaching the parking lot, he took the stairs two at a time, not meeting anybody on his way up. It was now 7.30pm and all the museum visitors had left hours ago, along with most of the employees. Upon reaching level five, he did encounter the parking lot attendant, known to all as "Ticketin' Joe" for his favorite pastime of issuing fines to anyone who parked incorrectly or in a space that was not allocated to them. It was also well-known that visiting FBI agents incurred the majority of these fines, a fact which seemed to increase "Ticketin' Joe's" popularity amongst the Jeffersonian employees.

After a brief conversation with the attendant, who proudly announced that he had issued twenty-three tickets today, Matt made his way over to his SUV, making a mental note to get a parking space nearer the entrance. As he got nearer, he started to feel his head spin slightly. He tried to quicken his pace, wanting to sit down, but his legs felt oddly heavy, as though they had been encased in cement.

Leaning against a nearby car, he took several deep breaths, trying to fight the invisible waves that washed over him and caused his body to sway dizzily. It did him no good. He fell heavily to his knees, his vision swimming before his eyes, and called out desperately, "Help me! Somebody..."

His voice was weak and his intended shout came out more as a feeble croak. Helplessly, he looked around, hoping that someone would come by and find him, but the rapid movement of his head did more harm than good as his sight deteriorated further.

The sharp tap of footsteps suddenly penetrated the thick fog in his brain, and it was all Matt Richards could do to raise his head to the approaching stranger. His brows wrinkled in surprised recollection of the person standing before him but as he opened his mouth to speak, his body finally gave out and he slumped forward on the hard concrete, surrendering to unconsciousness.


	2. Museum

Seeley Booth was hot, and he knew it.

It was barely 9.30 in the morning, but the oppressive humidity of July in DC had already set in, and despite the shortness of the walk from his car to the doors of the Jeffersonian, Booth could feel himself starting to sweat. Deciding against taking the unbelievably stuffy elevator down to ground level, he walked quickly down the stairs, sincerely hoping that the case he was about to embark on involved little or no physical legwork.

As he pushed open the doors to the Jeffersonian, he breathed a contented sigh as he was blasted with the full force of the air conditioning system, which someone had apparently set to "Arctic" in response to the heatwave. Rearranging his hair in one of the well-polished windows, he made his way towards the Medico-Legal lab, wondering why a bunch of squints merited a cooler working environment than the FBI. He shuddered to himself as he remembered the interesting collection of body odors he had smelt as he headed out of the Bureau earlier that morning, having been told, as usual, that there was a body at the Jeffersonian, and that the FBI should be involved.

Bracing himself for the sight of another decomposed corpse, Booth swung open the doors to the well-ventilated lab, calling, more out of habit than anything else, "What've you got for me, Bones?"

She didn't answer him. In fact, no-one answered him. Booth looked round, bewildered, as he saw that the Jeffersonian, usually filled with lab-coated squints and complex scientific discussion, was completely deserted.

"Bones?" he tried, uncertainly, "Camille? Angela?" As a last resort, he even ventured, "Hodgins?" but still no reply came.

Feeling slightly unnerved by the emptiness of the lab, Booth began to back out in the most masculine way possible, but stopped as a young man wearing a blue lab coat ran hurriedly into the lab, scooped up an armful of evidence bags and started to run out again, seemingly without noticing the agent's presence.

After two years of working with the Jeffersonian, Booth could now spot a squint at twenty paces, and seeing the lab coat and the telltale disregard for other people, he moved to intercept the newcomer, asking bluntly, "Where is everybody?"

The younger man jumped at the sound of his voice and looked at Booth as though he had just materialised from thin air. "Who... What...?" he stammered, taken aback by the stranger's presence in the empty room.

Rolling his eyes, Booth repeated slowly, "Everybody. As in, the entire lab?"

Recognition finally dawned on the scientist, who said with a triumphant smile, "Agent Booth!"

 _Nice work, Sherlock,_ Booth thought sarcastically, but managed to keep his annoyance under wraps, instead replying calmly, "Yep, that'd be me. Care to tell me why I just walked into a ghost-lab?"

"The body, Agent Booth," the man replied, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. "The temporary director ordered all hands on deck this morning. Since a Jeffersonian employee was found dead in the Jeffersonian Ancient World Exhibition, it follows that the murder should be investigated by the team at, well, the Jeffersonian." He realised his present company and added hastily, "And the FBI."

"Employee?" Booth repeated, anxiety evident as he asked, "Who was killed?"

"Matt Richards," the squint stated bluntly, before clarifying, "Head of Security." Seeing Booth's obvious relief, he added, "Don't worry, Sir; Dr Brennan's fine."

Booth stared at him, eyebrows raised, "Excuse me?"

The young man's eyes widened and he instinctively began to back off as he murmured, "I just meant that, what with her being your partner, and you two in a relationship and all, that it'd be natural for you to be concerned about her..."

"Relationship?" Booth inquired, his voice a mixture of disbelief and anger. "You think me and Bones are in a relationship?"

"No?" he whimpered fearfully as Booth took a step closer.

Taking another step, Booth spoke clearly, "Listen, kid; I know how office gossip works, particularly around you squints, whose sex lives are essentially non-existent, but the only relationship Dr Brennan and I are involved in is a working one, and if I hear you or anyone else saying otherwise..." He didn't articulate the threat, but placed his hand on his hip, revealing his gun sitting in its holster.

Message received, the young squint nodded nervously before dashing back out of the door as fast as his legs could carry him. Casting his eyes heavenward, Booth sighed loudly, trying to assure himself that his vehement denial had been to protect Brennan's reputation in the lab, and not in any way to mask his own, more amenable, feelings about a possible adjustment to their partnership. Groaning in annoyance as the familiar internal debate resurfaced, Booth headed off towards the Ancient World Exhibition, muttering under his breath, "Goddamn squints."

* * *

Stepping into the hall which housed the exhibition was unsettlingly like setting foot inside a "Where's Waldo?" cartoon. The entire room was filled with people in blue lab-coats and white latex gloves, all peering closely at whatever evidence was nearest to them. Feeling lost and slightly disturbed, Booth scanned the room for Brennan without success. Eventually, he decided to go with what he knew and headed straight for the body in the middle of the room, guessing his partner would be somewhere nearby.

As he got closer, he realised just how macabre the scene was. The body of Matt Richards was sitting upright in a throne-like chair, arms resting on the sides and head facing forward as though he was alive. The large metal thunderbolt that had been driven through his heart, however, confirmed that he wasn't. Walking carefully round the pool of blood on the floor, Booth realised just how rare it was that they found a victim that still had blood and found himself missing the simplicity of a skeleton.

His morbid thoughts were interrupted by a cheerful, if slightly teasing, greeting from Camille Saroyan, "Nice of you to finally show up, Seeley." He turned to see her standing protectively by the corpse, hands on her hips and a half-smile on her face as she asked, "What took you so long?"

"Hey, I got a message saying there was a body at the Jeffersonian," Booth said defensively, "How was I supposed to know it was actually _at_ the Jeffersonian?" Cam raised an eyebrow and he held his hands up in protest, "Just saying..."

Smirking, she gestured to the body, her tone becoming more business-like. "Victim's name was Matthew Richards, Head of Security at the Jeffersonian. Appears to have been killed by a bronze thunderbolt through the heart, but I can confirm that when the body is moved to the lab. Lack of defensive wounds suggests he was unconscious or incapacitated when he was killed, but that too requires confirmation."

Booth waited in expectant silence and she suddenly remembered about the other members of the team, "Um, Angela is taking photos of the scene, but she thinks there's something familiar about the body placement, so you may want to look into past cases. Hodgins has so far found a feather, a hair and what looks like gold flakes on the body, but again-"

"You'll know more at the lab," Booth finished with a sigh. Changing tack, he asked hopefully, "Anything you can tell me about this guy? I know how much you love finding out people's life stories." The pathologist rolled her eyes and Booth flashed her his most persuasive grin as he pressed further, "Any wives, girlfriends, vengeful exes in the picture?"

"Try all of the above," she replied simply. He pulled out his notebook as she elaborated, "He had a wife, Catherine, and a new girlfriend on the side practically every month."

"Do you know the names of any of the girlfriends?"

Dr Saroyan shook her head. "I know they all worked in the Jeffersonian somewhere, but he was close to so many women that it was difficult to keep track of who he was sleeping with." A small smile played on her lips as she said, "He was a notorious flirt."

Shifting uncomfortably, Booth spoke seriously, "Listen, Camille, I'm sorry but I've got to ask; were you and he..."

Putting him out of his misery, she shook her head firmly, "I was not having sex with him, Seeley. He flirted with me from time to time, but I don't think there's a woman in this building that couldn't say the same. He even came on to Dr Brennan once..." Booth's expression darkened and Cam added by way of reassurance, "I don't think she noticed."

"Speaking of Bones..." he began, as subtly as possible.

Cam rolled her eyes. "She's over there, Seeley."

Following her gesture, Booth was surprised to see Brennan standing away from the bustling throng of people, engrossed in one of the museum exhibits. Frowning in confusion, he made his way swiftly through the crowd and walked up close behind her, hands in his pockets and shoes clicking loudly on the marble floor. Standing at her shoulder, he gave a low whistle and said casually, "Nice ass."

Brennan spun round to look at him, surprised by his comment, but Booth merely pointed innocently to the donkey depicted on the Greek vase in front of her and repeated, "Really, great ass."

Not wishing to acknowledge his innuendo, she asked irritably, "What do you want, Booth?"

"Well, I wouldn't say no to a pool table in your office, but, failing that, I mostly want to work this case," he answered, ignoring her annoyance. "However, you seem to be actively _not_ working this case. What's going on, Bones?"

She put her hands on her hips and nodded her head towards the busy crime scene, "Do you see any bones in there?"

"No?" Booth replied nervously, suddenly sympathising with the squint he had interrogated earlier.

"Exactly!" Brennan declared triumphantly. "My knowledge, and therefore my presence, is entirely superfluous here. I've got remains to identify, papers to read, research to do, but since Dr Goodman's replacement is forcing everyone to work on the case, I have to stay here, where I am essentially useless to the investigation."

"I was wondering why Cam was so happy this morning," he said with a grin, before clarifying, "She doesn't have to fight you for the body."

Temperance shot him a glare but Booth was unable to hold back a smile as she glowered at him. Wrapping an arm round her shoulders, he began to guide her back to the scene, speaking cheerfully, "I'm sure I can find a use for you, Bones. There's interviews to be done, surveillance footage to be checked, and there's the all important donut-run. What do you say?"

Relenting slightly, she gave him a small smile, "Fine, I'll help with interrogations and looking at surveillance footage..."

"That's my girl," Booth said with a cocky wink.

"But you can get your own donuts," she finished firmly.

He opened his mouth to protest but was cut off by an urgent shout from Angela, "Guys, take a look at this."

Exchanging concerned glances, Brennan and Booth hurried back to the center of the room to find Cam, Angela and Hodgins huddled round a small piece of paper which Angela held gingerly in a gloved hand. Wordlessly, she handed it to the anthropologist, and bewilderment spread across Brennan and Booth's faces as they read the contents of the note:

 _What comes up must go back down;_

 _Adulterers deserve no crown._

 _Children learn by what they're taught;_

 _How they're shown, not how they ought._

 _The impure will be purged and then_

 _The Golden Age will come again._

 _Cronos._

There was silence among the group as they exchanged confused glances, unsure of what to make of the note.

Brennan was the first to speak, asking Angela, "Where did you find this?"

"In his pocket," the artist replied quietly.

Silence descended again temporarily as they all appeared to be lost in thought.

It was broken for a second time as Booth clapped his hands together in a motivational fashion, speaking decisively, "Okay, so, crappy rhyme scheme aside, what does this mean?" He received no answer. "Come on, squints! Any ideas?" Turning to his partner, he asked, almost as a last hope, "Bones?"

She looked up from the note and met his eyes, shaking her head, "I don't know what this means."


	3. Zeus

Brennan and Booth collapsed onto the couch with a sigh, both of them sweaty and exhausted.

Angela, Hodgins and Cam looked at them in silence from across the coffee table with expressions of mild disdain on their faces. Angela was the first to speak, a mock innocence in her voice, "So, how was the FBI air conditioning today?"

The pair on the couch glared back, their flushed faces and dishevelled appearance answering for them.

Hodgins grinned at the two of them, stretching happily in his chair and saying, teasingly, "Well, I was kinda cold today. What with the dehumidifiers and the fans and the large, cool rooms, I almost wished I could spend my whole day trapped in a tiny, stuffy, poorly ventilated interrogation room..."

If looks could kill, Brennan's stare would have sent Hodgins to an early grave. Booth, however, was leaning towards the more old-fashioned approach and rested his hand on his gun as he spoke sarcastically to the entomologist, "Oh please, keep talking. At least that way, my day won't be a total loss."

Sensing the need to distract Booth from shooting her employees, Cam interrupted the staring match between the two men, her tone cheerful yet business-like, "So, I'm guessing you didn't get anything out of the interviews today?"

Still glowering at Hodgins, Booth replied in annoyance, "Nothing except a severe case of déjà vu." He motioned to the stack of files on the table with a sigh, "Mr Richards had a wife, a mistress and two ex-girlfriends, all of whom said exactly the same thing in the interviews."

"They all thought that he was the perfect man, until we told them about the other women," Brennan elaborated. "Then they either cried or yelled for a while."

She looked over at Booth who added with a wince, "Mostly yelled. Anyway," he continued, "None of them have great alibis - home alone, in the car, that kind of thing - and given that Matt Richards was essentially a cheating bastard, all of them have a pretty plausible motive." He looked up at Cam, "So this is where I need you to do the squint thing. You know, narrow it down a little."

He smiled at her hopefully and, returning the smile, Cam flipped open a file, reading aloud, "Mr Richards' C.O.D. was cardiac arrest due to the wound to the heart. I found trace of a benzodiazepine in his blood stream; it was too degraded to pinpoint which one but it's safe to assume that he was heavily sedated when he was killed."

Booth nodded, "So this gonzodiazepine-"

"Benzodiazepine," Brennan, Hodgins and Cam all corrected.

Oblivious to their disdain, Booth continued undeterred, "This stuff is controlled, right? Prescription only?"

"Yes, but there are lots of different types on the market. Without knowing the exact drug, it's kind of hard to narrow it down," she offered apologetically.

Booth sighed. "So we got nothing."

"Not exactly," Angela chipped in, a note of hopefulness in her voice. Still slumped on the couch, Booth and Brennan both turned their heads to look at the artist, and she carried on, "The security cameras were disabled in the main exhibition hall last night, so you should probably look at people who work here." There was a slightly awkward silence and she clarified, "But not us, obviously."

Shaking his head, Booth said despondently, "Three of the four women we interviewed work in the Jeffersonian, and his wife could easily have had access to the building. Sorry, but that's not narrowing it down any." He scanned the group of scientists sitting in front of him. "Anything else? What about the note you found?"

Angela, Hodgins and Cam all shifted uncomfortably, none of them especially eager to speak up. Frowning in confusion at their avoidance, Booth sat up, his interest now piqued. "What did you find?" he asked suspiciously.

Sighing loudly, Angela met his eyes and said simply, "The dead guy is Zeus."

Both Brennan and Booth stared mutely at her and Angela wrinkled her nose in annoyance. "Stop giving me the "you're crazy" stare. You asked what we found, and I'm telling you."

Brennan leaned forward, saying patiently, "Ange, you do realise that Zeus is the _mythical_ patriarch of an ancient and no longer practised religion?"

Her friend rolled her eyes, "I didn't mean that he is actually Zeus - just that the killer wanted to make him Zeus, metaphorically speaking."

"What's your evidence?" Temperance inquired.

Pulling her sketch book out of her bag, Angela leaned forward with a smile. "Exhibit A." Opening the book, she showed the partners two sketches, one of Matt Richards' corpse, positioned in the chair, and one of what looked like an seated man holding a thunderbolt.

Pointing to the latter, she explained, "This is a rough sketch of the statue of Zeus at Olympia, which was one of the Seven Wonders of the World until it was destroyed. Now, no-one knows exactly what it looked like, but this is the generally accepted depiction. The positioning of the body is almost identical to the statue, except that the thunderbolt has been driven through his heart instead of being held in his hand."

"And there's no beard," Booth added helpfully.

Brennan shook her head. "That's not conclusive proof, Angela. For all we know, Matt Richards could have just been sitting down when he was killed."

"Which is why we have Exhibits B and C," she replied with a confident smile and gave Hodgins a prompting nudge.

Clearing his throat, the entomologist opened the file that had been resting on his knees. "Exhibit B. I found hairs from a _Bos taurus_ , feathers from a _Cygnus olor_ and flakes of what appear to be flattened gold."

"Once more with English?" Booth asked tiredly.

"Bull hair, swan feathers and gold leaf," Brennan translated casually, her attention still fixed on Hodgins as she inquired further, "What does that have to do with Zeus? As far as I remember, he was king of the Greek gods and he controlled the weather, not animals or metals."

"Didn't he had sleep with someone while he was in the form of a bull?" Booth questioned uncertainly and all four heads swivelled round to face him in surprise.

"Yeah, Europa," Angela answered, slightly stunned by his unexpected answer. "He also had sex as a swan and as a shower of gold." Temperance raised her eyebrows and the artist smiled patiently. "Try not to think of the mechanics of it, sweetie."

Ignoring her latter statement, Booth nodded in recollection, "Yeah, I remember now. So what, our killer is planting evidence of these affairs on his body?"

"Looks like it," Cam added, still staring at the agent in surprise. There was a moment's silence before she said, confused, "I never would've had you down as a Classical scholar, Seeley."

He shrugged, apparently ignorant of their shock at his sudden knowledge. "I read the myths when I was a kid." Becoming aware of their intense gazes, he asked, uncomfortably, "Didn't everyone?"

"No, dude," Hodgins replied with a smirk. "Angela only knows the stories because she's seen pictures of them."

Feeling mildly embarrassed, Booth held his hands up defensively, "Hey, they were good stories. Anyway, is it so strange that I know something?"

Resisting the urge to answer in the affirmative, Brennan quickly turned the topic of conversation back to the case at hand. "What's Exhibit C, Angela?"

"That would be this." She dropped the evidence bag containing the note on the table.

Booth rolled his eyes. "Ah, the gloat note. Always my favorite part of any crime scene."

Ignoring her partner, Brennan asked curiously, "Did you work out what it means?"

"Yes and no." Pointing to the typed name at the bottom, Angela elaborated, "Cronos was the father of some of the Greek gods and ruled for what is usually referred to as "The Golden Age" but he was later overthrown by his son, Zeus. These last two lines seem to mean that our killer identifies himself with Cronos and so killed his "impure" son, Zeus, since he had many affairs."

"Like Matt Richards," Cam clarified.

Brennan nodded. "It's logical, trying to reclaim a better time by removing any impurities associated with the current situation." The rest of them looked at her with mild revulsion and she protested, "I said it's logical, not that it should be condoned."

Changing the subject, she peered closely at the note, "So these first two lines refer to Zeus himself. _"What goes up"_ meaning his position as ruler of the Heavens and _"adulterers deserve no crown"_ linking to his role as king of the gods."

Angela nodded, "That's what we thought."

"Well, what about the middle lines?" Booth asked, not fully satisfied. "I mean, I'm with you for the whole Cronos' revenge, Matt Richards is Zeus thing, but what does this mean? _"Children learn by what they're taught, How they're shown not how they ought."_ How does that fit into all this?"

"We were hoping you'd have some ideas," Cam admitted.

"Actually, we were hoping Dr Brennan'd have some ideas," Hodgins corrected, his tone slightly mocking. "But since you've turned into Myth-boy, I guess this is your thing."

Booth raised his eyebrows and asked incredulously, "Myth-boy?"

"Hey, you've mocked us for years for knowing things," he answered with a grin. "Payback's a bitch."

"Okay, first off, I mock you because you're weird, not because of what you know," Booth countered, feeling slightly unnerved at being picked on by a squint. "And second, you call me that again and I will shoot you."

Knowing he was beaten, Hodgins wisely kept his mouth shut as Booth re-read the note carefully before shaking his head, "Nope, I got no idea."

There was an audible sigh of disappointment around the table and Cam got to her feet, yawning tiredly. "Sleep on it. There's no sense in spending all night staring at old evidence." No-one else made a move to leave. "Go home, people! I know that's a foreign concept for some of you, but get out of here. There's nothing we can do tonight; we may as well look again tomorrow with fresh eyes."

Angela looked over at Hodgins with a suggestive smile. "She's got a point. I can think of ways I would much rather be spending the evening..."

Not needing to be told twice, Hodgins got to his feet with a grin, nodding gratefully to Cam as he said "Goodnight, Dr Saroyan."

Sliding his arm around Angela's waist, they began to walk towards the door as she called back, "Go home, Bren! Find a fun way to spend the evening." She glanced over at Booth as she added, "Preferably involving another person and dessert toppings."

"Goodnight, Ange," Temperance said, firmly, ignoring her friend's helpful suggestion.

When the pair had left, whispering furtively to each other, Cam made her own move for the door, saying with a smile, "Make sure she goes home, Seeley."

As the door closed behind her, Booth got to his feet with a tired groan, before facing his partner with his hands on his hips, "You heard the lady, Bones."

Rolling her eyes, Brennan asked, "Why does she care whether I go home or not?"

"She's probably just thinking of the amount of overtime she's going to have to pay you if you stay here all night," he responded with a grin. "Now, are you going to go home of your own accord or am I going to have to throw you in the trunk of my car and drive you there myself?"

She folded her arms across her chest as she raised her eyebrows challengingly. "I'd like to see you try."

He sighed with mock regret. "And any other day, I would take pleasure in forcibly abducting you from work, but I think we've spent enough time getting hot and sweaty with each other today." He shot her a playful smile and said innocently, "Unless you disagree?"

Getting to her feet, Temperance reluctantly gave in. "I'll go home." Picking up her entirely unnecessary coat from her chair, she headed to the door, giving Booth a teasing smile as she said in passing, "Wouldn't want you to strain yourself if things got too rough."

She walked out without looking back, a smirk playing on the corners of her lips. Booth could only watch her go, thinking that he definitely needed a cold shower and no longer just because of the heatwave.


	4. Ares and Aphrodite

"Ahh..."

Brennan and Booth both let out an involuntary moan of pleasure as the blast of cold air from the SUV's air conditioning hit them. A second later, they both realised the usual context for those types of moans and an awkward silence swiftly descended over the moving vehicle.

Opting to avoid the ever-present subject of the heatwave, Brennan asked in her most professional manner, "So what do we know about these bodies?"

Keeping one eye on the road and one hand on the wheel, Booth rummaged in his pocket for his notepad, containing the information about the bodies that had been found early than morning in one of the least pleasant parts of town. Seeing that his distracted search was not yielding any results, Brennan reached over and slid her hand into his interior jacket pocket, only to be met by a surprised protest. "Bones!"

Rolling her eyes, she felt her nimble fingers close around the pad as she replied, "Concentrate on the road and stop being such a baby."

Booth tried to push her away with his elbows while keeping his hands on the wheel as he took a sharp corner, saying irritably, "I don't appreciate being frisked while I'm driving, Bones."

"Just trying to help," she said defensively as she sat back in her seat, triumphantly clutching the elusive book. "You looked like you were struggling..."

"Struggling?" Booth asked incredulously. "I was not struggling. Just because you are incredibly impatient does not mean that I was struggling. I was merely taking my time."

"Of course," she replied with more than a hint of sarcasm. Flipping open the notepad, she scanned the most recent pages, frowning. "How do you read this?"

He sighed in annoyance. "Great, first you steal my pad, then you insult my handwriting."

Brennan peered closer at the page in front of her, asking with genuine confusion, "Is this even in English?"

"What? Yes, it's English," he replied irritably, snatching the book from her hands. "What, you think I write all my notes in Chinese or something?"

"No, I can read Chinese," she answered seriously.

Suppressing a growl of frustration, Booth read aloud quickly, "Two bodies were found this morning by the local PD in a building used mainly by addicts and prostitutes. They think that one of them's a prostitute and the other's a client, but the cops said that the scene was "weird," and so called us in."

"Weird in a very subjective definition," Brennan stated knowledgeably. "What many people consider to be weird may be something we see every day."

Not wanting to be defined as someone whose job consisted of "weird," Booth turned the focus back to the more normal aspects of the case. "We don't know who called it in, other than it was a man, but we'll get the audio tapes and see if that gives us any clues."

"Do you think it could be the killer?" she asked intrigued, but the agent gave a non-committal shrug.

"Could be, but chances are it's just some client who didn't wanted to share his business with law enforcement. We'll look into it." Temperance settled back in her seat as Booth continued. "When the cops got there, they said they found a note which looked to be from the killer, so they called it into the FBI. They then joined the two large dots and called me. I called you and, like magic, here we are."

Brennan looked at her watch with a puzzled frown. "It's only 7:30am. What time did this happen?"

"I got the call at about 6:30 this morning, but I wasn't exactly asleep so it didn't take long to get ready."

"You don't start work till 9; why weren't you sleeping?" she inquired, before realising what her partner may have been doing instead of sleeping. "Oh."

Booth grinned. "It wasn't that, Bones. My AC's on the fritz at the moment and it's stuck at the temperaure of summer in Texas, when I was kind of looking for winter in Alaska. Obviously it's not as bad as the first circle of Hell that is the Hoover building, but it's not great for sleeping in."

Brennan gave him a sympathetic smile but kept her mouth closed until they reached their destination, deciding that it was best not to mention that her apartment was the temperature of spring in Vancouver and that she'd had a great night's sleep.

Arriving at the building, it was immediately obvious why people wouldn't want to admit they came here. Many of the windows were boarded up and those that weren't had panels of broken glass from where rocks had been thrown through. The lighting in the hallways was flickery at best and the stairwells smelt strongly of urine and cigarette smoke. After making their way through the corridors avoiding the stray needles on the ground, Brennan and Booth finally reached the crime scene where some miserable-looking cops stood guard.

Ducking under the tape, they saw the rest of the squints were already there, standing mutely around the bodies, seemingly unsure of what to make of them.

As much as Temperance hated to admit it, the description provided by the cop appeared to be accurate; the scene was "weird." The bodies lay on the bed, still entwined as though mid-coitus, with the woman, who Brennan assumed was the prostitute, on the bottom, and her client on top. Both were completely naked, with bleeding wounds on their heads from where the killer had presumably done his work. However, the strangest and most noticeable aspect of the macabre presentation was the large net that had been draped over the dead couple, with a note visibly attached.

The stunned silence was broken by a low whistle from Booth. "So much for safe sex."

Rolling her eyes, Brennan turned to the team standing by the wall. "What have you found?"

Angela shook her head, speaking quietly, "We've taken pictures but we were waiting for you before we moved the bodies."

"Why?" she asked, more bluntly than she intended. "These aren't skeletons; there's no real reason for me to be here at all."

Choosing her words carefully, the artist gave her a small smile. "Actually, sweetie, we were thinking Booth might know what this is meant to represent. We looked at the note, but..."

She trailed off as the anthropologist walked over to the bodies and peered at the note, reading aloud;

 _Sin pervades both love and war_

 _They have been cleansed; they live no more._

 _The key to life is moderation,_

 _Excess leads to ruination._

 _The impure will be purged and then_

 _The Golden Age will come again._

 _Cronos._

She glanced up at Booth, expectantly. "Any ideas?"

Seeing his silent shrug as he looked closely at the bodies, Cam cut in with what little explanation she could offer. "The woman's ID puts her as Jessica Lynn and the cops says she's a local prostitute. The man's wearing dog-tags with the name Chris Johnson on them, but we don't know if that's him or if he got them from somewhere else." She paused as she saw Booth's eyes light up in realisation. With a slight smirk, she asked curiously, "What's the myth this time, Seeley?"

Ignoring the teasing tone in her voice, Booth pointed to the pair on the bed, saying confidently, "He's supposed to be Ares and the woman's Aphrodite."

"The god of war and the goddess of love?" Brennan inquired, more to question Booth's opinions than the Greek gods' job titles.

"Soldier and a hooker," Hodgins said with a grin. "Makes sense in that twisted serial killer sort of way. But what's with the net?"

Everyone's eyes immediately swivelled to Booth, including those of the two cops by the door who were now quite interested in the proceedings. Sighing, he began to speak with the air of a reluctant story teller. "Aphrodite, the goddess of love, was married to Hephaestus, who was the god in charge of metalwork and forging things. Now, Hephaestus was ugly and crippled and kind of impotent, whereas his wife really, _really_ wasn't." Seeing Hodgins raise his eyebrows, he clarified, "She was like an Ancient Greek Playboy bunny."

Getting a nod of comprehension from the entomologist, Booth continued, "Anyway, she wasn't getting any from her husband, so she started having an affair with Ares, the god of war. He also happened to be her brother, but that really wasn't a big issue for them. The affair went on for a while, until news of it got back to her husband."

"Uh-oh," Angela commented with a grin, finding herself enjoying the story.

Booth went on, "Hephaestus didn't really want to take on the god of war because, you know, cripple; so he waited until the two lovers were in bed together and threw some sort of magical net over them, trapping them there so that the other gods could see what had been going on."

He gestured conclusively to the bodies in front of them. "Like I said, Ares and Aphrodite."

Brennan nodded slowly. "So the first two lines of the note refer to this. "Cronos" is getting rid of _"love and war"_ because they had an affair with each other."

Grim realisation dawned on Booth. "That's what the middle two lines of the last note meant. _"Children learn by what they're taught, How they're shown not how they ought."_ Zeus was the father of Ares and Aphrodite..."

"And so the children learnt about adultery from the father," Cam finished, before the implication of Booth's words hit her too. "Oh my god..."

"He'd planned this already," Brennan stated, horrified. "He'd left a clue in the last note; he knew he was going to kill again."

All eyes travelled back to the note still perched on top of the bodies.

"Does that mean that there's another clue in that one?" Angela asked softly, not really wanting to know the answer.

Slipping on some gloves, Temperance retrieved the note and scanned it again. "The last couplet appears to be a refrain - it's exactly the same as the one on Matt Richards' body. The first two lines of each note correspond to the body or bodies that they are found with, in this case the _"love and war"_ reference and previously the mention of _"adulterers deserve no crown."_ "

She took a deep breath as she reached an unwelcome conclusion. "If what Booth says is correct, and the middle lines of the first apply to this murder, then it's logical to assume that the killer will follow the same pattern."

"There's going to be another murder," Booth simplified, angrily, "And the bastard's giving us a sneak preview."


	5. Analysis

"Tell me again why you get the good air conditioning."

Cam, Hodgins, Angela and Brennan all looked up, a mixture of amusement and pity on their faces when they saw Booth enter the lab, clearly having suffered during his morning spent at the Hoover building.

"The government don't want the heat interfering with our work," Brennan answered matter-of-factly.

" _Your_ work?" the agent repeated incredulously. "Correct me if I'm wrong but your work involves dead people, holograms and bugs. It does not involve possible murder suspects who get irritable and violent when it's too hot."

"Trouble in custody today?" Cam asked unconcernedly while she continued to study her autopsy notes.

Sighing, Booth nodded. "You could say that. My whole morning was spent helping to subdue suspects who decided to attack agents during interrogation, and let me tell you, trying to pin down some sweaty bank robber who bites when angry? Not the best way to keep cool."

"Sounds like an R rated prison movie," Hodgins said, with a grin that quickly vanished as Booth fixed him with a cold stare.

Seeing Booth's face, Angela couldn't help but add teasingly, "You know, you could probably make a fortune off those FBI surveillance tapes."

Cam and Brennan tried to hide their smirks as Booth looked round, feeling victimised. "Where the hell's karma when you need it?"

Doing her best to stay professional, despite the not entirely unappealing image that Hodgins had conjured up, Cam cleared her throat. "I'm assuming you want to know about the case?"

Thankful for the respite, Booth nodded encouragingly. "That'd be a start."

Glancing down at her notes, the pathologist relayed the information, "Cause of death for both victims was subdural hematoma. We found a bloody baseball bat under the bed, and the DNA samples on that matched the two victims. The only fingerprints on the bat were those of Jessica Lynn, and unless she bludgeoned herself to death in flagrante, it's a fairly safe bet that the killer wore gloves."

"There were no relevant particulates on the bat handle," Hodgins chimed in. "I'm still working on the net, but so far I've found traces of Ictaluridae, Hypophthalmichthys molitrix and Perca flavescens."

"Meaning?" Booth prompted tiredly.

"Catfish, carp and perch," Brennan supplied and he rolled his eyes at Hodgins.

"You could've just said it was a fishing net."

The entomologist grinned. "Where would be the fun in that? Anyway, I'm still trying to narrow down the location where the net was used. I've found some interesting samples of Sagittaria latifolia and Typha latifolia, but I haven't yet established the ratio of-"

"Well, go establish," Booth interrupted, unwilling to listen any more long and complex plant names. Happy to get away from the armed and testy agent, Hodgins headed back towards his desk while Booth turned to Dr Saroyan. "Have you confirmed the ID on the victims yet?"

Angela answered for her, "The woman is definitely Jessica Lynn, but we knew that at the scene. I checked the military personnel records and Chris Johnson's picture matches our guy. His unit just returned from a tour of Iraq - they flew into Dulles Airport yesterday afternoon."

Booth nodded in apparent comprehension. "He must've been looking for a way to wind down." Seeing their surprised looks, he said defensively, "I served, okay? I know what guys like to do when they get back from active duty."

"Did you ever..." Brennan questioned curiously.

"What? No!" Booth replied, insulted. "You think I was talking about myself?" Not wanting to hear her answer, he continued, "Look, all I know is that some of my buddies would head straight to places like that as soon as they flew in. It's pretty common behavior; if our killer had known there was a flight coming in, it would've been pretty easy for him to find a soldier with a hooker last night."

"You think it wasn't a personal attack?" Cam inquired, surprised.

He shook his head. "These killings seem more about making some sort of statement, rather than taking out specific individuals. The adulterer, the prostitute, the soldier - it's like these victims have just played a part in his grand design."

"So, what, he's choosing people at random who fulfill his criteria?" Angela asked, concerned. "There aren't any entomologist-dating forensic artists in Greek mythology are there?"

Smirking, Booth reassured her, "I think you're safe on that count." Glancing round the group, he asked, "You got anything else?"

Cam shook her head. "Angela's working on the CCTV tapes from the surrounding buildings to see if she can find a guy with a net, but there wasn't much footage available."

"People really don't want to be seen around there," the artist added helpfully before her boss continued.

"Hodgins is busy working on that net and I still need to go over the bodies for traces of anything other than sexual activity." Giving him a playful smile, she asked, "So what did the great detective powers of the FBI come up with?"

"Not much," Booth admitted. "Before I was asked to help with the interrogation room fights, I called the four women suspected in the Matt Richards killing, and they all had solid alibis for last night. We're back to square one on the identity of the murderer and I've got no other suspects at the moment."

"We'll see what we can do about that," she replied with a smile. "Dr Brennan's working on deciphering the notes, but I'm sure you'll be much more help than a computer."

Ignoring her mocking tone, Booth turned and grinned at his partner, who did not seem overly enthused about her task. Frowning in confusion, he walked over to her as Angela and Cam swiftly departed to their respective posts, leaving the two of them alone on the raised platform.

"What's up, Bones?" Booth inquired with a friendly smile. "Am I that horrible to work with?"

The anthropologist smirked slightly, but her eyes still seemed downcast. Beginning to get worried, Booth asked gently, "What's the matter? Are you okay?"

Not expecting such a concerned reaction, Temperance looked up at him, shaking her head, "I'm fine, Booth. It's just..." Annoyance crept into her voice as she explained, "I read bones. That's what I do, that's what I'm good at, but so far I don't have any bones to look at. Instead, I'm stuck tagging along to interrogations and researching things I know nothing about. How am I of any use to this case?"

Her anger at the current situation was evident, but underneath her obvious frustration, Booth could see that she was genuinely upset at feeling so left out. Giving her an easy smile, he spoke sincerely, "Bones, you are anything but useless. I've helped you with your stuff in the past, with picking up burnt body bits and finding chunks of bone and other disgusting things; it's just what partners do, and right now, I could really use your help with this note. I know it's not your thing, but my mythology knowledge is kind of rusty, and I could do with some internet assisted reminders." He flashed her his most persuasive smile. "Come on, you know how much you love correcting me..."

Despite herself, Brennan felt the corners of her lips tug upwards in a small smile. Rolling her eyes at him, she said, with feigned reluctance, "Fine. I'll help."

Knowing that she was glad to be needed, Booth placed his hand between her shoulder blades and guided her towards her office as she added, "But I'm still not going for donuts."

He opened his mouth in mock-protest, but before he could speak, an sudden silence fell over the lab.

Unsure why it had gone so quiet, or indeed, what noise was there before, Booth turned to Brennan, only to see she was looking up at the ceiling. Following her gaze, he saw that the large fans on the ceiling had stopped turning and quickly realised that the background noise had been from the constant rumble of the air conditioning units.

"Tell me that's not what I think it is," he said hopefully, praying that she would comply with his request.

Temperance just looked up at him and Booth's heart sank at her words. "The air conditioning's stopped working."

Apparently unphased, she headed for her office and her computer, while Booth just stood in the large, mostly metallic lab, wondering how long it would be until it reached the temperature of a sauna and feeling even more depressed when he reached an estimate. Sighing despondently, he followed his partner to her office, mentally telling karma that it could've at least waited until he was out of the lab before breaking the AC.


	6. Ecstasy

It was times like these that Seeley Booth wished he was a woman.

He and Brennan had been sequestered in her office for hours, trying to solve the clues given by their friendly neighborhood serial killer, while the temperature in the Jeffersonian rose and rose. Cam had poked her head round the door briefly to assure them that the air conditioning was being fixed, but, to Booth's annoyance, she had also asked them to stay in the building instead of going to the FBI headquarters in case their help was needed with any new discoveries.

However, new discoveries had been few and far between, and Booth was now starting to take back everything he had said about the Hoover building's weak but functioning ventilation system. Sitting on Brennan's couch, he wondered if it was physically possible for a human to melt. His hair on the back of his neck was damp with sweat, and his white shirt clung to his back. Wishing he'd worn his wifebeater, Booth pushed the sleeves back up over his elbows and unfastened the third button on the front of his shirt, having discarded his tie long ago.

If he'd been alone, he might have considered removing his shirt entirely, but he was fairly certain that Brennan wouldn't tolerate any kind of nudity in her office. Social conventions hadn't stopped him from removing his shoes and socks though, and his bare feet currently rested on her coffee table while he stared at the information she'd printed off the computer and debated whether he would lose all masculine credibility if he rolled up his pant legs to let some air get to his calves.

Glancing over at his partner, he saw to his frustration that she didn't seem to be sharing his discomfort. Her hair was pulled back into a messy bun, leaving her neck bared to any cool air that could be found. She had removed her over-shirt early on, and now sat in a strapped top that left her shoulders, arms and chest uncovered. Her heavy brown boots lay under the desk and she tucked her bare legs underneath herself as she sat on her chair.

But what Booth was most envious of was her skirt. Not that he had any particular desire to start dressing in women's clothing, but seeing how her light, knee-length skirt floated as she moved, letting the air circulate around her legs, he suddenly found himself feeling jealous that women got to wear cool, floaty skirts to work, while he was stuck in his constricting and very warm dress pants.

Unable to concentrate on his work, Booth got to his feet with a groan, feeling a bead of sweat trickle down his spine as he moved. Too exhausted to form full sentences, he looked at his partner and pointed towards the door, stating his intention simply, "Ice." Brennan didn't look up from her computer screen, instead just giving him a nod as he went.

Returning a few minutes later, clutching a cupful of ice that was already starting to melt in his grasp, Booth was gratified to see that her cool exterior was beginning to slip. Brennan's cheeks were flushed and there was a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead, which she wiped away with the back of her hand, swinging her legs under the chair in irritation.

Booth collapsed back onto the couch, stretching his legs out on the table as he held an ice cube to his head with a groan of satisfaction. His partner shot him a disapproving look and he just smiled in reply, "Oh, come on, don't tell me you haven't been thinking about doing this."

Temperance rolled her eyes. "That won't do you any good in the long run. Your body will think you're cold and will try to warm itself up. You'll end up hotter than when you started."

He closed his eyes with a sigh as he moved the ice down his face. "Yeah, but it feels so good..."

Shaking her head, she turned back to the computer. "It won't help. I told you, the thermo-regulatory center in the brain-"

"Yeah, I know, Bones, I heard you the first time," he interrupted, still keeping the ice on his temple. "But you can't seriously tell me you wouldn't like some kind of release right now."

A small smile flitted across her lips. "I'm sure the sense of satisfaction is very appealing," she replied, doing her best to maintain a clinical tone, "But the detrimental effects outway the temporary pleasure."

"Then you haven't been doing it right," Booth said with a cocky grin.

Brennan raised her eyebrows and responded in kind, "Trust me, no matter how good it is, it'll all be over in seconds."

Not about to back down, he answered with a shrug, "Guess I'll just have to keep doing it then." To illustrate his point, he picked up another ice cube and held it to his head with an exaggerated sigh. "Yep, just as good."

"And how do you plan on getting any work done?" she inquired, with her best attempt at a severe tone.

The agent smirked as he turned his head to face her. "There's really nothing for me to do." Seeing her about to object, he sat up, speaking sincerely, "Bones, please, just chill, okay? In every sense of the word. We've been over this note a hundred times, and right now, I'm too hot to think. Let's just cool off for a minute and then I promise we can get back to work."

Temperance remained unconvinced and Booth pulled himself off the couch, walking over to her with the cup of ice. Eyeing it warily, she threatened, "If you even think about pouring that on me..."

He chuckled under his breath and held his hands up innocently. "Wouldn't dream of it. Just relax, Bones."

Picking up a large ice cube, he tried to move behind her, but she spun her chir round to face him, looking at him suspiciously. "You are not touching me with that ice."

"Just try it, okay? I'll stop whenever you want, but please, just give it a go. You'll enjoy it, trust me." He gave her his best puppy-dog look and reluctantly she swivelled her chair back round.

"Alright, but if you-" Her words were cut off by a sharp gasp as Booth held the ice cube to the back of her neck. Before she could get over the shock of the cold, he began to move the ice down her spine, following its trail with his warm hand so as to take away some of the coldness.

Thin trails of water snaked their way down her back, soaking into her top as the ice continued on its course along her shoulder blades, with Booth's hand seconds behind. She closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation, as Booth moved the ice in smooth circles on her back, his hand tracing its sparkling path with almost massaging movements. The combination of the two stimulae caused Temperance to bite back a contented moan, unwilling to show him just what effect his ministrations were having on her.

Smiling slightly at her obvious enjoyment, Booth slowly dragged the freezing ice along her pale and exposed collarbone, causing her to lean back into the chair to allow him better access. Not wishing to move up to her face or down to her chest for fear of accusations of inappropriate behavior, he continued to move the ice back and forth between her shoulders, watching it melt between his numb fingers as he did so.

As the ice-cold water trickled down her chest, Temperance could barely focus on anything except the pure ecstasy of the respite from the heat. One part of her mind nagged at her that this was not the kind of behavior usually associated with partners, but that thought was quickly quashed by the part of her mind that logically pointed out that it was better to have someone else cool you down, so that your body didn't produce any excess heat from unnecessary muscle movement.

Not being told to stop, Booth slid the ice again across her throat and couldn't stop himself from grinning at the tiny moan that escaped her lips. Taking it as a challenge to make her moan again, and louder, he gradually began to move it round the to back of her neck, letting it rest softly on her pulse points as he did so and eliciting a slight tremble from his seated partner.

The intimacy of the moment was suddenly interrupted by a sharp knock on the door, and a old man's voice calling, "Excuse me, Dr Brennan, but we've just got the ventilation fixed."

Both Booth and Brennan jumped at the unexpected sound. Temperance's eyes flew open in shock as she turned to look at the janitor at the door. However, his unannounced arrival had a different effect on Booth, who immediately dropped the ice cube in surprise.

It was the janitor's turn to look startled as Brennan let out an involuntary yelp when the ice landed in her cleavage, before sliding further down to her stomach. Standing up and shaking her top out, she glared at Booth in annoyance as the ice smashed on the floor.

Unsure of what to say in this situation, the janitor completed his message as a question, "It'll be back on in a few minutes?"

Nodding at him through gritted teeth, Brennan managed a tight smile, her cheeks still flushed with embarrassment. "Thank you."

After the old man's hasty departure, she wheeled on Booth angrily. Before she could yell, he backed away, holding his hands up in defense. "Sorry, Bones, it slipped out of my hand."

"Slipped?" she repeatedly threateningly, picking up the cup of ice as she advanced towards him. "Slipped?"

Booth's eyes widened and he backed off even further, not looking away from the cup."Well, it's not like I was aiming for there... I was surprised, and it fell, and I'm sorry, and I really don't need to have a cup of ice thrown over me," he said quickly, his tone rapidly changing from one of apology to one of self-preservation.

A small smile played on her lips as she backed him into a corner, a mischievous glint in her eye. "You were the one who wanted to cool off..."

Before Booth could point out that an ice bath was not what he had in mind, there was another knock on the door and Brennan reluctantly set down the cup as Angela and Hodgins entered with triumphant grins on their faces.

Finding himself happy to see the squints for possibly the first time in his life, Booth asked with genuine interest, while distancing himself from his ice-wielding partner, "Have you found something?"

Buoyed by the agent's uncharacteristic enthusiasm, Hodgins nodded happily, launching into an explanation, "Looking at the samples of Sagittaria latifolia, combined with the abundant presence of Icta-"

"We know where the killer went fishing," Angela interrupted. Hodgins glowered at her, hands on his hips in annoyance at his thunder being stolen, but the artist just flashed him a cheerful smile. "Don't pout, sweetie."

"Well, where was it?" Brennan prompted, buoyed by the prospect of a lead in the case.

"Little Hunting Creek in Fairfax County, Virginia," Hodgins said quickly, before Angela could cut in again. "It's a popular fishing area around a Potomac tributary."

"That's great," Booth said, pulling his shoes and socks back on in his eagerness to get out of the lab. "Me and Bones'll go check that out right now."

He started to shepherd his partner towards the door, but stopped as Angela just tapped the watch on her wrist pointedly. Glancing down at his own watch, he realised that it was now nearly 7pm, and way past the peak fishing time. "Or we could wait till morning," he finished smoothly, stepping away from Brennan who merely rolled her eyes at him.

"Good plan," Angela said, a smile on her face but a hint of sarcasm in her voice. Draping her arm round Hodgins' shoulders, she added before she left, "See you in the morning."

"Here's hoping it doesn't start with a fresh body," Hodgins called back with a grin as he and Angela made their way out together, leaving Brennan and Booth standing in her office, both sincerely hoping that Hodgins' passing comment would come true.


	7. Zoo

Of all the places Seeley Booth did not want to be during a heatwave, the National Zoo was fairly high up on the list.

It had taken all his cunning and manipulation, as well as an ice-cream-shaped bribe, to persuade his son that they should spend their Saturday together at the ice rink instead of the hot, smelly, shade-free zoo, and the fact that he was now being called in to investigate a body at said zoo was not the start he had envisioned for his morning.

Pushing his way through the mid-morning crowds, Booth glanced down at the colorful map he'd been provided with, trying to locate the hyena enclosure while simultaneously avoiding the herds of children who seemed to be using his legs as an assault course. His heart leapt when he saw the familiar crime-scene tape in the distance and he quickened his pace, doing his best not to trample a small red-headed child who was actively staring at her balloon instead of watching out for FBI agents moving at speed.

Upon arrival at the hyena enclosure, thankfully without any manslaughter charges, Booth ducked under the tape and peered through the fence into the animals' habitat, not entirely sure what he would find.

It wasn't good.

The hyenas themselves had been moved out of the enclosure to a holding bay, leaving Booth with an unobstructed view of exactly what had happened. Amongst the pale sand and grey stone of the pen, there were several large, bloody chunks of what he could only assume was a person. Blood was spattered across the ground and body parts littered the enclosure, some of them identifiable to the untrained eye and some mauled beyond recognition. The pungent smell of animal waste and dead human flesh wafted through the fence and Booth mentally instructed the maple-syrup covered waffle he'd had for breakfast to stay where it was.

His attention was distracted from the nausea-inducing sight by a loud shout from the side of the pen. "Booth!"

Shielding his eyes against the sun, he saw Brennan, Hodgins and Cam emerging from a side door, carrying numerous bags for body parts and dressed in matching blue jumpsuits and white masks. Grinning despite himself, he called back, "What are you, the Three Squint-eteers?"

"Good morning to you too, Seeley," Cam replied sarcastically through her mask, while Hodgins just coughed something that sounded suspiciously like "Myth-boy".

Ignoring the entomologist, Booth moved closer to the sturdy fence, bracing himself against the smell as he asked, "What happened here?"

"Someone was mauled, dismembered and partially consumed by hyenas," Brennan answered simply, a disturbing hint of cheerfulness in her voice as she walked over to him, leaving Cam and Hodgins to occupy themselves with finding other stray body parts.

Picking up on her obvious contentment, he said, bewildered, "You do know that's not traditionally a good thing, right?"

"I know," she replied, an enigmatic twinkle in her eyes as she bent to examine a body part near where the baffled agent stood. Looking at it closely, she stated decisively, "It's a femur, definitely belonging to an adult."

Realisation dawned on Booth and he waved a finger at her knowingly. "You've got bones."

Her blue eyes briefly flickered up to meet his, wide and innocent, but he still recognised the tell-tale sparkle that he'd seen so many times before. A triumphant smile spread across his face and he exclaimed, "I knew it! You're happy because you've got bones to examine."

Before Brennan could reply, the side door opened again and Angela came out holding a camera, her face almost as pale as the white mask she wore. She moved over to join Brennan and Booth, clearly wishing she was on Booth's side of the fence, and said through gritted teeth, "I'm going to kill Zach."

Booth frowned in confusion. "I thought the kid was in Iraq."

"Oh, he is," Angela replied, as though that was the problem. "He's thousands of miles away when he should be here, taking pictures of people parts so I don't have to." She took a deep breath, trying not to gag at the smell, before adding miserably, "Please make sure the guy who did this gets the death penalty."

He gave her a tight smile. "Working on it. Want to tell me how this happened?"

"Cam said the hyena keeper found it like this when he arrived this morning," the artist answered simply. "The security guards didn't see anyone on the cameras in the public areas, so the victim must have come in through the employee door." She pointed to the side door they had just entered from. "We've not found a note yet, and personally, I'm hoping that this was a ridiculously melodramatic suicide attempt, but we'll know more when the body's been..." She swallowed hard. "Collected, and taken back to the lab."

Booth grimaced. "Nice." He started to back away as he said, "Guess I'll just meet you there. I need to go up to Little Hunting Creek to check out who bought that type of net; I'll pick up a list of zoo employees on my way out - see if any names come up twice."

He didn't get very far before the anthropologist called out in protest, "Wait!"

Sighing, he reluctantly walked back towards the pen, noting that the smell didn't get any better after prolonged exposure. "Yep?"

"Do you know what myth this is based on?" Temperance asked, her intellectual curiosity piqued.

"We don't even know if this is the same guy," he said, unwilling to admit he had no idea. Trying to buy himself a little more time, he added pointedly, "You're the one who always says not to jump to conclusions, remember?"

Mildly offended, she put her hands on her hips as she stood up to face him. "The statistical probability of this death being unconnected to the previous two is incredibly low, as is the probability of there being more than one serial killer operating in the city on consecutive days. Just because we haven't yet found a note-"

"Okay, okay," he muttered, defeated. "It probably is our killer, but I don't know which myth this is supposed to show."

Disappointed, Brennan turned back to the femur at her feet, saying distractedly, "Alright, you can go now."

He raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "Gee, thanks for the permission, Bones."

She looked up again, puzzled by his sarcasm. "I thought you wanted to go?"

"I did. I _do_ ," he corrected emphatically. "But that doesn't mean I need to be dismissed by you. All evidence to the contrary, Bones, you are not my drill sergeant."

"Drill sergeant?" she questioned, looking up at him in annoyance. "How am I in any way like a drill sergeant?"

Not wishing to be stuck in the middle of an argument, and also relishing the opportunity to use her mouth for something other than vomiting, Angela spoke up, asking Booth, "Wasn't there a story about a hunter who got eaten by his own hounds? I think it was in a Titian painting..."

Distracted from his squabble with Brennan, the agent nodded, surprised at Angela's knowledge. "Yeah. There was a hunter who got caught watching Artemis, the goddess of hunting and the moon, while she was skinny-dipping, so she turned him into a stag and set his own hounds on him."

The artist shrugged, "Maybe Cronos had the hounds eat Artemis this time?"

Booth frowned, unconvinced. "I'm not sure..." Turning to Brennan, he asked, "Is this a woman?"

"I don't know at the moment," she replied matter-of-factly. "Wait until I find the pelvis."

Suppressing a shudder, he turned back to Angela, shaking his head in uncertainty. "I don't know; Artemis doesn't seem right somehow. The last note about excess leading to ruination? Artemis wasn't exactly known as excessive; she was restrained, cold, virtuous... It doesn't fit."

There was a brief silence as Booth and Angela contemplated the meaning behind the body and Brennan busied herself with placing the bloody femur in an evidence bag. When she had stopped rustling, Booth shook himself out of his thoughts and began to back away again with an apologetic shrug. "Sorry, but I can't work out the myth until you find the note." Reaching the yellow tape and knowing that he was almost home free, he said with a smirk, "I'll go talk to the fishing people. Call me when you find something."

He bent to duck under the tape when Hodgins' voice rang out for the first time that morning. "Found the note!"

Cursing the entomologist and his sense of timing, Booth walked back to the enclosure, trying to stop his breakfast waffle making a break for freedom. "Let's hear it then, Bug-boy."

Hodgins debated whether to protest again the unfairness of a system where "Bug-boy" was an acceptable form of address whereas "Myth-boy" wasn't, but soon decided against it when he realised that the gaps in the wire fence were big enough to fit the barrel of a gun through. Taking a deep breath, he read aloud with a dramatic flourish:

 _Those who love to drink and feast_

 _Are no better than wild beasts._

 _In crossing the line, you must pay the price,_

 _When one is fire and the other ice._

 _The impure will be purged and then_

 _The Golden Age will come again._

 _Cronos._

All eyes turned to Booth who was now nodding in comprehension.

Impatiently, Brennan prompted, "Well, what does it mean?"

Enjoying the new experience of being the one with knowledge, Booth answered simply, with a knowing smile, "Dionysus."

"Gesundheit," Cam replied, raising her eyebrows in amusement.

"Dionysus was the Greek god of wine, orgies and general revelry," Temperance stated, recalling what little she knew.

"Orgies?" Hodgins interrupted in disbelief. "Man, I want that guy's job."

Ignoring her colleague's sudden enthusiasm, Brennan asked with interest, "How is being torn apart by animals related to Dionysus?"

Booth just looked at his watch with a grin as he headed towards the exit. "Sorry, but I've got to go see a man about a net."

"Hey, you can't leave it there!" Angela protested through her mask. "We need to know the story!"

He shrugged with mock regret, "Wish I could stay, but I really need to go track down the owner of that net. You know, catch a killer, stop these murders..." He grinned as he ducked under the tape, calling back, "I'll finish off storytime at the lab. Unless you genius-types can figure it out before then..."

Giving them a cocky wink, he disappeared back into the crowds, leaving Brennan, Hodgins, Cam and Angela in stunned ignorance for the first time in their lives.


	8. Dionysus

"So, did you figure it out?"

The team on the platform turned to face Booth as he jogged up the small flight of stairs, their exasperated expressions making it very clear that they hadn't figured it out.

Grinning in triumph, he asked teasingly, "Give up?"

Brennan put her hands on her hips. "We always keep you informed of the facts that we find. It's hardly fair for you not to share valuable case information with us."

Her stern tone didn't phase the agent, who shrugged casually. "Hey, I told you who the victim was supposed to be. The rest is just story-telling."

"Then story-tell," Angela prompted, eager to hear the reasoning behind the latest killing.

Sighing in mock-reluctance, Booth gave in. "Okay, you all know that Dionysus was the Greek god of revelry and drinking. According to one story, all the women from a certain town would go up to the mountains once a year to worship him. And in this case, worshipping means getting drunk, doing some chanting, going into a supernatural trance... you know, the usual."

Brennan rolled her eyes but he continued, "Men were forbidden from going up to observe these rites, but one guy, the prince of the town, decided to go against the rules and spy on them. Because, hey, a bunch of women alone on a mountain sounded like quite a party."

A smile spread across Hodgins' face at the thought, and he asked with interest, "What did he see?"

Booth eyed him seriously, speaking with the air of someone telling ghost stories round a camp fire, "He didn't live long enough to tell. The women caught him, and, since they were still in this mystical frenzy, they tore him limb from limb like wild animals." There was a collective shudder around the platform as he concluded with a ghoulish grin, "His own mother even ripped off his head."

"Did the Ancient Greeks not know any happy-ever-after stories?" Angela asked, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "Because this is the second one you've told me today about people being eaten alive. It's gross."

Booth smirked. "Think of it as an early version of Silence of the Lambs."

Trying to turn the attention back to the case and away from any pop culture references, Brennan hypothesised, "So Cronos killed Dionysus by letting him be ripped apart as though by his own worshippers?"

The agent nodded. "Looks like it. His female worshippers were called Maenads, or Bacchae, and they supposedly went everywhere with him. Guess there's some kind of irony in him being killed by his own followers."

"What about the middle lines of the note?" Hodgins ventured, hoping Booth would have an answer. "Whose going to be the next victim?"

"Let's hope there won't be a next," Booth shot back, trying to stay optimistic. "I got a list of people who'd bought that net from the fishing supply store up at Little Hunting Creek and ran it against the zoo employees - one name came up twice." He checked his notes. "An animal feeder called Jim Roberts. I've got someone bringing him in now, so we can go talk to him when we've finished here." He glanced over at Brennan as he spoke, clearly happy about the prospect of a lead, "See if he's been feeding the hyenas a little something extra recently."

"So you'll be wanting the findings on the victim then?" Cam asked with a sly smirk.

Booth nodded slowly. "That would be why I'm here, yeah."

The team exchanged meaningful looks and Booth suddenly empathised with the man who'd been locked in with the hungry hyenas. Feeling slightly nervous, he prompted, confused, "Any time today would be good."

Nominating herself as the group spokesperson, the pathologist replied teasingly, "Well, since you didn't want to share the story with us, we're not entirely comfortable sharing our findings with you just yet."

Booth's mouth dropped open but Hodgins spoke before he could voice his protest, "Dr Brennan's got all the necessary information to conduct the interrogation. You know, to catch a killer..."

"Stop these murders," Angela echoed mockingly, enjoying Booth's sheer terror at the apparent squint mutiny.

Turning to his partner for support, Booth found her smiling innocently at him as she held up a thick file, "Should we go to the interview now? I've got all the findings here."

Raising his eyebrows, he scanned the group, shaking his head in amused disbelief. "You're sulking? You've got, what, seven doctorates between you, and you're sulking because I didn't tell you a story?"

"No," Brennan replied with the tone of a scolding school teacher. "We're supposed to be a team, and the group dynamic and efficiency are severely affected when one member incorrectly judges himself to be superior to the rest." She smiled calmly. "Consider this a way of reminding you that we should all have equal share in the case."

Unsure of the correct response, Booth held his hands up in surrender. "Lesson learned, okay? Now would you just give me the information I need for this interview? I promise to tell you all the stories you want next time..."

There was a brief pause as the lab-coated group exchanged further communicative glances and Booth shifted uncomfortably where he stood. Eventually, Angela spoke up, "Alright, we'll forgive you." Seeing Booth visibly relax at her words, she added with a mischievous grin, "But only if you say please."

"Oh, come on!" he said indignantly, feeling thoroughly victimised, but was only met by amused smirks from Cam, Angela and Hodgins, and an expectant stare from his partner. Sighing in defeat and sacrificing the remainder of his dignity, he spoke through gritted teeth, "Please."

Resisting the urge to make him to repeat it loud enough for the whole lab to hear, Angela relented and held up a sketch on her pad. "The victim's name is Daniel Barnes. My reconstruction matched a photograph on the NCIC; he's got prior offences including multiple DUIs, driving without a license, assault on a police officer - you get the idea."

Booth nodded. "I'm guessing he liked to drink?"

"He had a blood alcohol level of 0.31 at the time of death," Cam answered and Booth gave a low whistle as she continued, "That's almost four times the legal limit. It takes a while to build up a tolerance to that amount of alcohol..."

"So he was an alcoholic?" he inquired with interest and the pathologist nodded in affirmation.

"Looks like it. The blood found in the soft tissue left on the limbs shows he was still alive when they started feeding on him, and that level of alcohol would have mostly likely caused lung, heart and liver failure in a casual drinker."

"The god of wine was an alcoholic," Hodgins summarised with a grim smile. "Kind of makes sense, I guess."

Not stopping to acknowledge this conclusion, Booth pressed on with his questions for Cam, "Was he drunk enough to walk into the pen himself if someone opened the door, or would he have had to be carried?"

It was Brennan turn to answer and she gestured to the now cleaned bones out on the table. "There are deep bite marks on the ulna of both arms and relatively few on the humerus, suggesting that his arms were being held in a defensive stance when they were bitten. Also, there are fractures on the phalanges of his right hand, indicating attacking wounds, mostly likely from a hard punch."

"He put up a fight," Booth concluded, his tone serious.

"It's human instinct to defend the body when attacked," Temperance said in agreement. "The incisions and fractures show that he was definitely conscious when he was left in there with the hyenas."

"So chances are that our killer led him in there and then locked the door before he realised what was happening," he theorised, trying to replay the series of events in his head. "You got anything else or should we go see if Mr Roberts can fill in any blanks?"

Hodgins took this opportunity to step forward, reading from his file, "I examined what clothing was left, and found traces of processed _Artemisia absinthium_ on his sleeve." Seeing the look on Booth's face, he quickly explained, "Absinthe. And apparently there are only a couple of bars near the zoo that sell Absinthe. We're getting the camera footage sent over now," he finished with a satisfied smile.

"You ever play Snap as a kid?" Booth asked as he pulled out a photograph from his file, sliding it along the table to the entomologist.

"Actually, I preferred-"

Not really requiring an answer, Booth cut him off, "That's great. I need you to look for this guy on the footage you get. You find a match anywhere and instead of calling Snap, you call me, got it?"

Hodgins merely nodded as Booth started to shepherd Brennan towards the door without waiting for a reply. Grabbing the file of information as she went past, Temperance let him lead her out of the lab, asking curiously, "Why are we in such a hurry? I thought you liked to, what do you call it, make them sweat?"

Quietly impressed that she was picking up his expressions, Booth replied with a smile as they headed for the parking structure, "Normally I do, but in this heat, suspects tend to take that phrase _way_ more literally than I'd like."


	9. Theories

"I have a perspiration problem," Jim Roberts stated, folding his arms defensively.

 _You don't say,_ Booth thought sarcastically as he took his seat on the opposite side of the table, eyeing the sweaty, overweight suspect with mild disgust.

Never one to let social tact and diplomacy stop her from speaking her mind, Brennan replied aloud, "So I see." Roberts' mouth dropped open at her comment and he gave an offended grunt as she walked slowly around him to get to her seat, looking at the large sweat patches on his back and underarms with detached fascination.

Giving her a sullen glare, he said, annoyed, "I don't appreciate being gawked at, lady." Shifting his gaze to Booth, he complained, "And I also don't appreciate being kept in here all morning by you Feebies."

Booth gritted his teeth. Not only was he not enjoying being shut in an interrogation room with a suspect whose body odor could possibly knock out an elephant, but he also had a violent dislike to being referred to as a Feebie. Agent, Fed, even Government Stooge were all preferable forms of address to something that sounded like it was the name of a rotund, brightly colored, and possibly singing, children's TV character.

Doing his best to disguise his annoyance, Booth replied calmly, "I apologise for any discomfort caused, Mr Roberts, but we'd just like to ask you a few questions concerning your whereabouts over the last few days."

"What do you mean, my whereabouts? I've been at home and at work. That's it," he said conclusively, as though he expected Booth to leave, satisfied with such a thorough and accurate answer.

Clearly not satisfied, Booth asked innocuously, "Do you fish, Mr Roberts?"

"Yeah," the man answered, suspiciously. "Nothing illegal about that, is there?"

Ignoring the question, he continued, "Do you own a fishing net?"

"Used to," he replied with a shrug. "Lost it last week."

Exchanging a meaningful glance with his partner, Booth asked, "Where exactly did you lose it?"

Running a hand through his damp brown hair, Roberts explained, "I was up at Little Hunting Creek in Fairfax. I'd put my net out and was having a nap under a tree because it was so hot. When I woke up the net was gone. I figured a bunch of fish must've got caught and then swum away still in the net."

"You're saying fish stole your net?" Brennan asked, unable to keep the amusement out of her voice.

"Hey, it could happen!" he protested. "Why are y'all so interested in my net anyhow?"

"We think it was found over the bodies of two murder victims," Booth replied bluntly and was faintly gratified to see the man's expression become instantly sober.

"Look, man, I don't know anything about any murders," Roberts said quickly, looking between the two of them nervously.

"Where were you on Tuesday night between midnight and 2 am?" Brennan asked.

"At home," he answered with a confused shrug.

"Can anyone verify that?" Booth added.

Roberts shook his head, the perspiration on his red cheeks now becoming even more evident. "No, I live on my own."

"Convenient," Brennan said, more to Booth than the man sitting opposite her, but that didn't stop Roberts leaning forward in objection.

"Hey, I've got nothing to do with any murders, alright! I don't even know why I'm down here - loads of guys have that net."

Seeing an opportunity to change the line of inquiry, Booth asked coolly, "You work at the National Zoo, Mr Roberts?"

He nodded, leaning back again as he relaxed slightly. "Yeah, I'm an animal feeder. I prepare the food and do all the non-public feeding demonstrations for the animals in the North-East quarter."

Checking the map in her notes, Brennan stated, "That would include the hyenas then."

Immediately knowing what she was referring to, Roberts began his protest again in earnest, "Yeah, but I didn't know anything about that guy that got eaten until someone told me this morning."

"How did you know the victim was a male?" she asked, curiously, and Booth sat up, keen to hear the answer.

Jim Roberts looked between them with a nervous shrug, "It had to be. I mean, who would do that to a girl?"

"But it's alright to feed a _guy_ to hyenas?" Booth questioned, verbalising his implication.

"What? No, I didn't mean that, I just thought that-"

"Were you home alone last night, Mr Roberts?" the agent interrupted, already knowing the answer.

Meeting his eyes, he said earnestly, "Yeah."

Looking at her partner, Brennan mused, "I can't imagine that the zoo would give keys to the hyena enclosure to a lot of employees."

Roberts shook his head anxiously, "There's only me, the overseer and the weekend guy, but I kind of lost my keys last week too."

Booth laughed in disbelief. "You expect us to believe you lost your keys and your fishing net, both of which were used in murders, in the same week?"

"It's the truth!" he protested vehemently. "My keys went missing the same day as my net - I've got new ones now, but I just thought I'd dropped them in the river or something." He offered Booth a hopeful smile. "I mean who'd want to steal my keys?"

"A murderer?" Brennan guessed pointedly.

"Where were you on Monday evening?" Booth asked, clearly satisfied that Roberts had the means to commit the three latest killings.

"I was at home," he replied dejectedly, knowing that this answer was doing him no good. "I know it looks bad, but I swear I've got nothing to do with this."

"You're right," Booth said, and a relieved smile came and went on Roberts' face as he clarified, "It does look bad." He leaned forward. "Do you know anyone who works at the Jeffersonian? Someone at the fishing site perhaps?"

Miserably, the man shook his head, his hazel eyes fixed firmly on the table. "Only guys I hang out with are the people I work with, and they don't like coming fishing. I've spoken to a few people at the Creek, but I don't know them very well. I met one guy who works at a school, one who sells hotdogs downtown and one who runs some paper recycling plant, but I don't remember anyone saying they worked at the Jeffersonian."

Brennan spoke up again, "Have you ever heard of a man named Matt Richards?"

Roberts shook his head once more, looking up at them pleadingly, "Look, I've told you all I know, alright? I've been at home for the last three nights, and I'm just unlucky with losing things. I don't kill people! Now, would you please let me get back to work?"

Booth got to his feet, stretching tiredly, and Roberts smiled. "So I can go now?"

The agent just laughed softly to himself. "No, Jimmy, you can't go now. You are under arrest for the murders of Matt Richards, Jessica Lynn, Chris Johnson and Daniel Barnes."

The man's eyes widened. "What? No, you can't! I've never even heard of any of those people!"

Locking his handcuffs round the man's wrists, Booth explained, "Your net was found over two of them, Barnes was let into the hyena enclosure which you just happen to have the keys for, and as far as we know, you could know someone working at the Jeffersonian. That, coupled with your complete lack of any alibis, is more than enough to hold you pending confirmation of evidence for a conviction."

He pulled the stunned Roberts to his feet while Brennan asked curiously, "What did the rest of the note mean? "Fire and ice" - who were going to be the next victims?"

Glancing back at her as Booth handed him over to another agent, Roberts replied with genuine confusion, "I got no idea what you're talking about, lady."

Before Temperance could question him further, he was led off to the cells, leaving her alone with Booth in the uncomfortably warm interrogation room. Turning to her partner, she decided to question him instead. "Do you really think he did it?"

Loosening his tie, Booth shook his head. "No, but he's involved somehow. We'll keep him in the holding cells overnight - see if he decides to tell us anything."

"He doesn't exactly seem the type to have written those notes," she pointed out, thoughtfully, and Booth just grinned at her in reply.

"Yeah, but before Monday you wouldn't have thought I was the type to understand those notes." Shaking his jacket off, he held it in one arm while holding the door open for her with the other. "Let's face it, Bones, this case is full of surprises."

She nodded in reluctant agreement as she walked through the door, thinking that Booth's knowledge of this case had definitely surprised her. Together they headed back to the Jeffersonian, knowing that the case was still far from solved.

* * *

Eight hours later, and the case remained far from solved.

Flipping through the file in front of him, Booth saw that they were ending the day with little more than they'd started with. The CCTV footage had shown Daniel Barnes leaving a bar of his own accord and there was no sign of Jim Roberts on any of the tapes, meaning that whatever happened had occurred after he left the bar. Cam had been able to provide a detailed description of exactly how he'd been ripped apart, but that was of little help to the case or Booth's stomach.

Hodgins was doing what he could with the particulates but so far hadn't found anything that didn't belong to the surroundings - hyena fur, sand, plant traces and the like. Jim Roberts' home had been searched and after going through his contacts, Booth had been unable to find a connection to the Jeffersonian. He'd even asked for a list of Roberts' fishing acquaintances, but had been provided with little more than a random selection of men's first names.

All this meant that he and Brennan had found themselves in the same position they had been in for the past two nights - sitting in her office trying to draw some clues from the latest note left by the killer. And, much like the previous nights, they were having little success.

Yawning, Booth dropped the file on the table in front of him and picked up the note again. After reading it through briefly, it joined the discarded file on the table as he said with a sigh, "Yeah, the whole "look at it with fresh eyes" idea really doesn't work."

The anthropologist rolled her eyes. "I'm fairly certain than a two minute break to read your file does not give you fresh eyes."

Smiling, Booth stretched his arms above his head. "Alright then, in the interests of this experiment, how about I go home, sleep till morning, then come back and still not understand it? Would that prove that the fresh eyes thing is bull?"

"I don't think you can count yourself as a thorough study," she replied with a smirk, suppressing her own yawn.

"I don't know," he shot back, raising his eyebrows, "I'm pretty thorough."

Opting not to acknowledge any suggestion in his words, Temperance smiled at him with a tired shrug. "If you want to go home, Booth, you're more than welcome."

Not moving from his seat, he said persuasively, "I was kind of hoping you'd go too."

"To your house?" she questioned teasingly. "If we need to spend time together, here's a good a place as any."

"Funny," Booth said sarcastically, a genuine smile playing on his lips. "But seriously, Bones, you need to go home. There's nothing more we can do here tonight."

She sighed, leaning back in her chair. "We do this every night." Booth looked at her quizzically and she elaborated, "Every night, we give up, go home and go to sleep. And every morning we wake up to a fresh body. I just thought that if I stayed up and kept working, I might be able to find something to stop there being another murder victim on the table tomorrow."

Meeting her eyes, Booth saw that she was exhausted, but utterly sincere in her intentions. Not wanting to leave her to work on her own all night, he got to his feet with a groan and nodded in acceptance. "Alright. If this guy kills every time we go to sleep, then we won't go to sleep."

"Booth, I didn't mean you had to-"

He cut her off before she could finish. "I'm going to go get us, what, our fourth coffee of the evening? See if that gives us fresh enough eyes to catch the serial killing Energizer bunny."

Temperance wrinkled her brow, momentarily wondering if she'd fallen asleep and was now dreaming an alternate reality. "Serial killing Energizer bunny?"

"Yeah, you know, because he just keeps on going?" Booth suggested, hopefully, miming banging a drum. "Only instead of this, he's more like..." he explained, mimicking a repeated stabbing motion. Seeing his partner's bewildered yet mildly amused expression, he just pointed towards the door, suddenly self-conscious. "I'm just going to go get some coffee..."

Before she could say anything, he hurried out of the office, not bothering to put his shoes on, and to the now familiar coffee machine at the end of the corridor which he had already visited at least three times in the last two hours due to his dire need for caffeine sustenance.

Once armed with two cups of steaming hot coffee, Booth headed back to Brennan's office and was surprised to see her leaning back in her chair, head down and eyes closed as if asleep. Glad that she was at least getting some rest, he moved to put the coffee cups down on the desk, when the table suddenly began to swim before his eyes.

Feeling his head start to spin, Booth stumbled back to the wall, leaning hard against it as his legs became too heavy to move. Disoriented and panicked, he called out, his voice unexpectedly weak, "Help me... Bones, I think I'm..."

He trailed off as he saw her head loll to the side, realising that whatever was happening to him had happened to her as well. Blackness danced around the corners of his eye as he struggled to fight the sleepiness that overcame him. Barely able to see or stand, he staggered backwards towards the door, only to find his legs colliding with something hard.

Before he could stop it, he felt himself being tugged back and his body gave out, sliding helplessly into what felt like a box behind him. Booth could just about make out the light above him from the container's opening while hands pushed his immobile legs down towards his body.

The next thing he knew, it all went dark. His hazy mind only just managed to work out that some kind of lid had been put on the container, before a new darkness claimed what was left of his senses, and, like his partner before him, Booth lapsed into unconsciousness.


	10. Crisis

_I'm never drinking again._

Lying on his side, Booth felt his mind stir from its slumber and immediately afterwards felt the pounding headache that was so familiar after a night of heavy drinking. _What the hell did I do last night?_ he wondered, waiting for the memories to come back.

He shifted experimentally onto his back, still half-asleep, and was surprised that the headache wasn't accompanied by the traditional nausea so beloved of the morning after. _I don't feel sick,_ he thought brightly, before nagging suspicion arose. _Why don't I feel sick?_

Opening his eyes slowly, he wasn't met with the expected burst of morning sunlight, but complete and utter darkness. He blinked a few more times, but still couldn't see anything of his surroundings. _Oh my god, I've gone blind._ Panicked, he sat up, feeling that the ground beneath him was soft and spongy, and definitely not his mattress. His legs hit something hard, and he reached blindly forward, only to find it was a wall.

Disoriented, Booth followed the cold metal wall round and found that he was enclosed in a space approximately 3 feet wide by 4 feet long. The panic grew stronger as he pushed against the walls, only to realise that he was trapped inside whatever this was. _Okay, stay calm. Work out where you are._ Taking a deep breath, he pulled himself to his feet, feeling around the walls for some indication of where he was.

Thin grooves ran horizontally across two of the walls, while the others were completely smooth except for a wide ridge that ran around the bottom of three of the four walls. The ceiling of the container was a couple of inches above his head, but that yielded no further clue to his location. However, the floor was what confused him most as he could still feel its softness under his sock-covered feet. _Socks. Why am I not wearing shoes?_

Suddenly the memories came flooding back. The afternoon spent in Brennan's office, with his feet on her coffee table. The note left by the serial killer. The lack of progress in the case. The decision to stay and work into the night. The coffee run and then...

"Bones!" Booth yelled, remembering the sight of his unconscious partner and praying that she was somewhere nearby. "Bones, can you hear me? Bones!" He banged loudly on the walls of his cell, shouting desperately, "Temperance! Are you out there?"

The response was not what he expected. As if on cue, blue gas-fuelled fire appeared from the thick ridge near the floor. His initial relief that he wasn't actually blind was quickly replaced by sheer terror as he looked round his prison again in horrified realisation.

 _It's an oven. He's shut me in an industrial oven._

Glancing down at the floor, Booth wrinkled his brow in confusion _. Why has an oven got a soft floor?_ Feeling the heat of the fire on his body, he shook his head in disbelief as he reached an unwelcome conclusion, _It's insulating foam. The bastard wants me to be able to stand up, to know what's going on._ He swallowed hard. _He wants me evenly cooked._

Unable to think of anything except escape, Booth turned to the wall that didn't have flames coming from the bottom of it, deciding that it must be the door. Starting to sweat with the heat, he slammed his shoulder hard against the metal, hoping that the door would give under the force.

However, as soon as his arm touched the door, a searing pain filled his shoulder as the heat of the metal burned him through his thin shirt. Booth backed away from the door with a sharp cry, cradling his arm and trying to stay equidistant from the four burning hot walls. The heat in the oven was quickly becoming unbearable as the gas flames blazed at ankle level, warming the oven. Sweat trickled down his face and neck as he spun round, looking for some way out.

Finding nothing but solid walls, Booth shouted in desperation, "Help me! Please, I'm in the oven! If you can hear me, please, open the door!"

He received no reply over the roar of the flames, his heart pounding in his chest and his body feeling as though it was now radiating heat. His damp shirt clung to his upper body, sticking to his skin and suffocating him, while his heavy pants and dark socks now felt hot against his legs and feet, the matt material absorbing the heat.

Knowing that breaking down the door was his only option, Booth tried again, pushing hard with both his forearms. His body instinctively pulled away at the burning pain, refusing to let itself sustain a possibly life saving injury and he screamed in a bitter combination of pain and frustration.

Breathing was becoming more difficult now since every breath seemed to suck hot air into his lungs, causing him to choke at the sensation. Booth crouched low to the floor, cautiously avoiding the dancing flames that surrounded him, and was rewarded by a deep breath of marginally cooler air. With renewed enthusiasm, he stood up again, and immediately felt his body sway dizzily, overcome with the effects of the heat. He rested his palms on his thighs, trying to stay upright and keep from passing out while his dry throat protested at the influx of heat.

The agent struggled to breathe, and once again forced himself upright, staring at the door that stood between him and freedom. Unwilling to give up yet, he quickly unbuttoned his soaked shirt, his fingers swollen and shaking at the effort. Peeling it off his torso and shoulders, Booth hurriedly wrapped it round his right foot, being careful not to let his bare chest or arms touch the sheets of metal that made up the walls of his cell.

Taking a deep breath and offering up a desperate prayer for salvation, he raised his foot and kicked hard at the side of the door.

It didn't open.

Pushing his damp hair back off his face, Booth tried again. His left shoulder collided hard with the wall behind him, but he barely noticed as his padded foot slammed into the door. Shooting pains jolted up his leg, but those and his stinging shoulder were forgotten as the door to the oven finally clattered open.

Staggering out, Booth fell to his knees on the tiled kitchen floor, gasping for air like a drowning man. The shock of the cold air caused goosebumps to appear on his exposed skin and the sweat that lingered on his body now felt like ice water as it cooled. His head still pounded from whatever had knocked him out and he felt like he had a fever, the hot blood still racing through his veins.

As soon as he was able to breathe, his thoughts instantly returned to his partner. Pulling himself shakily to his feet, he stumbled over to the oven next to his and pulled the door open, assuming the mysterious killer had done the same thing to her as he had to him.

His heart sank when the door fell open to reveal an empty oven, with Brennan nowhere to be seen.

Cursing under his breath, Booth looked round frantically, trying to think where else she would be. For the first time, he realised he was in the deserted cafeteria kitchen at the Jeffersonian and it was the middle of the night.

 _Okay, think rationally,_ he told himself as he attempted to quell the feeling of dread in his gut. _This guy has a reason for doing everything, so what would he have done with her?_ His mind flashed back to the note left on the last body. _One is fire and the other..._

"Ice!" he said aloud, suddenly full of hope. Scanning the kitchen again, he murmured to himself, "Where's the goddamn freezer?"

He ran out the back of the main kitchen into a small corridor, his damp socks slipping on the tiles, and found a large door at one end. Sprinting to it, he lifted up the solid bar than held the door shut, calling as he did so, "Bones? Temperance, can you hear me?"

Getting no reply, he pulled the heavy door open, and involuntarily shivered as his over-heated body was met with even colder air. Knowing about, and ignoring, the possibility of cardiac arrest at the drastic change in temperature, Booth stepped into the freezer, steeling himself against the cold. "Bones, are you in here? Please, say something if you can."

He walked into the center of the large freezer, unable to see her amongst the masses of hanging meat and the icy mist that hung in the air. Looking round helplessly, he heard a weak whisper from behind him.

"Booth..."

It was enough. Booth spun back to face the door and caught sight of his partner, curled up into a ball by the wall in an effort to retain warmth. Without stopping to think, he ran to her, but it was only when he got close that he saw just how pale she really was. Her lips and fingers were starting to turn blue and she was shivering violently, her light summer clothing providing little protection against the bitter chill of the freezer.

"Bones, you're going to be okay, but we need to get out of here," he said urgently, grasping her arms. "Can you stand?"

Her eyes glazed over as he spoke and she just looked up at him blankly, as though not understanding what he'd just said. Taking her silence as a "no", Booth carefully slid an arm under her bent knees and placed his other around her back before gently lifting her, all the time speaking softly, "You're going to be fine; it's over, you're safe."

Carrying his shaking partner out of the freezer, Booth felt his own muscles start to shake again, affected by the combination of heat and exertion. They made it back to the main, warmer kitchen area, but there he sank to the floor, exhausted, with Brennan still held firmly in his arms.

Neither of them spoke for what seemed like an eternity, clinging to each other out of sheer survival instinct, one desperate for warmth and the another needing the cold. Booth wrapped his burned and aching arms round his partner's pale shoulders while her head nestled under his chin, pressed against the muscles of his chest. He could feel every inch of her frozen body against his overheated one, her toes tucked between his legs, her legs laying bent across his lap, her torso flush against his chest as they sat together, each providing the thing the other craved.

The sensations began to return to Brennan's limbs, filling her fingers and toes with a strange tingling as the blood coursed back to her extremities. Her mind felt as though it was frosted over, and as the ice gradually melted, dozens of questions came flooding back to her. _What happened? Where's the killer? Is Booth alright? Where are we?_

She could feel the heat seeping from Booth's skin into hers and wondered briefly why her partner was shirtless and overly warm. However, the desire for any kind of heat was still too great, and she instead remained still, grateful for his presence.

Relishing the warmth from his arms which enveloped her like a blanket, Temperance felt a jolt pass through her as Booth's muscles suddenly become tense. Involuntarily holding her breath in suspense, she could make out the sound of his shallow breathing, accompanied by unfamiliar rasping breaths, and her heart started to pound in anxiety. Her head still pressed against his chest, she heard that Booth's heart was also hammering as he whispered warningly, his lips barely moving as his hot breath brushed her neck, "Bones..."

Lifting her head, her eyes travelled over Booth's face, catching the hard set of his jaw and the flash of fear in his eyes. As if in slow motion, her eyes then moved higher and widened at the sight before them.

The elderly janitor stood over them. His usually downcast eyes now blazed with insane anger and a cruel smile split his face, his lips curving upwards in an expression of pure malice. The dim blue light from the oven fires fell across his face, bathing his twisted features in an eerie glow. A bright glint of light caught her attention and she forced her eyes away from his to see where it came from.

The look of fear she had glimpsed earlier in Booth's eyes crossed her own face, as she now saw the pistol that was being held to the base of her partner's skull.


	11. Apollo and Artemis

"The impure will be purged and then, the Golden Age will come again."

Brennan looked up at the janitor, eyes wide as she struggled to comprehend the sight before her. Trying desperately to remember his name, she edged slowly back, venturing, "Mr Normans?"

His eyes darted to hers, glinting ominously in the flickering light, and he greeted her with a sickening air of courtesy, "Dr Brennan."

She glanced quickly at her partner, whose kneeling position preventing him from turning to seize the gun. Bringing her focus back to the old man, she instructed with authority, "Put the gun down, Mr Normans."

The tremor in her voice betrayed her confident facade and he merely laughed, shaking his head. "The impure will be purged..."

"You're the one who wrote the notes," she stated in horrified disbelief. "You killed those people."

Normans' voice became that of a kindly old man as he declared with a hint of regret, "They were impure. I couldn't let them live."

"And us?" Brennan pressed as her eyes darted round, looking for some source of help. "Why did you do this to us?"

He shook his head, anger returning to his eyes. "You are no different from the rest of them," he spat. "Both of you. You seem so good and righteous, but behind it all you're just as dirty as the others." His words were punctuated by sharp jabs of the pistol into Booth's head, forcing his eyes down to the floor, and Brennan swallowed hard, feeling her heart pounding in her chest.

Desperate to buy himself more time, Booth asked quietly, praying that his words wouldn't motivate the man to shoot, "How are we impure?"

The gun remained still as Normans quoted, in the manner of one reciting scripture, "In crossing the line you must pay the price, when one is fire and the other ice."

Still baffled by the meaning of the riddle, Brennan asked uncertainly, "Is that why you shut me in the freezer? Am I supposed to represent ice?"

He nodded, giving her a benevolent smile. "You are Artemis."

Remembering Booth's description of Artemis when they were at the zoo, she repeated it nervously, having no other information at her disposal, "The goddess of hunting and the moon?" Puzzled by the comparison, she recalled the rest of the portayal, "Restrained, cold, virtuous?"

Normans smiled, evidently pleased with his match. "Just like you. Reserved, independent, competent..." Seeing her surprise at his knowledge, he gave her a fatherly smile. "After all my years of working here, I think I know you fairly well, Dr Brennan."

"What about me?" Booth asked, hoping to distract him. "Who am I supposed to be?"

The janitor's eyes darkened but stayed fixed on Brennan, his gun holding Booth firmly in place as he answered, "You, Agent Booth, are Apollo."

"The god of archery and the sun," Booth said, more to Brennan than to the man behind him. "Artemis' twin brother?"

"Precisely. Full of confidence and life, energetic, fiery, but also dedicated to reason and order. Sound familiar?" Normans questioned mockingly, raising his eyebrows but not moving the gun.

Before Booth could answer, Brennan spoke up again, her voice filled with realisation as she slowly got to her feet, her hands held up in surrender, "So, the goddess of the moon is frozen to death and the sun god is burned alive."

"One so cold and distant, and the other blazing and lively. It only seemed right that you should be consumed by what is essentially your nature," he stated, a hint of pride in his voice.

"Why?" Normans and Brennan both looked down at Booth, who was still on his knees at gunpoint, as he elaborated, "You said it yourself, Artemis and Apollo were virtuous, dedicated to order... Why are they, why are _we_ counted as impure?"

"You crossed the line," the elderly man said solemnly. "Now you must pay the price."

His finger moved to the trigger and Temperance shouted quickly, "Wait! What line did we cross? We work together; we're just partners..."

"Don't lie to me!" he roared, pushing the barrel of the gun hard into Booth's head, and Brennan had to stop herself instinctively reaching for her partner as he closed his eyes in expectation.

"I'm not lying," she countered sincerely, holding out her hands in a pacifying gesture. "Please, just tell me what we did. We at least deserve to know what we're being killed for."

"You should know," he growled angrily. "You are the sun and the moon, fire and ice. You work together well, providing everything in perfect balance, each excelling at the other's weaknesses. But there is a line that cannot be crossed between twins and partners, such as yourselves and Artemis and Apollo. Just as the horizon separates the sun and the moon, so you must remain apart. But you crossed that line. The twins become lovers, the balanced becomes unstable and order becomes chaos. That is why you are impure and that is why Artemis and Apollo must now die."

Hoping fervently that she had understood his reasoning, Temperance stated honestly, "We're not lovers."

The old man shook his head, a dangerous edge to his voice as he spoke, "I warned you not to lie to me."

"She's telling the truth," Booth confirmed, keeping his voice low. "We've never been anything more than partners."

Normans laughed, loud and harshly. "You think you can fool me? I saw you together!" He looked down at the agent. "You, with your hands all over her in full view of everyone." His eyes moved to Brennan, blazing wildly, "And you, moaning under his touch like a shameless whore. A few more moments and you would've been writhing around on the floor of your own office if I hadn't intervened."

"It's not what you think," she countered, her tone somehow both pleading and insulted. "We were just trying to cool off. There wasn't anything sexual behind it..."

He hesitated and Booth spoke up, echoing Brennan's sentiments, "We're not together like that. What you saw... it was only friendly, nothing more. I know what it looked like but I swear, we'd never cross that line."

The janitor still said nothing, glancing suspiciously between the two of them. Brennan slowly moved forwards, speaking softly, "Put the gun down, Mr Normans. We've not done anything wrong; you've got no reason to do this. Please, just drop the weapon and let him go."

Booth felt the pressure of the cool barrel on the back of his neck lessen and he exhaled in quiet relief.

His feeling of relief swiftly dissipated when the old man barked suddenly, "On your feet." Seeing that Brennan's face was still full of fear, Booth complied, standing slowly with his hands raised in submission.

"Hold her," Normans commanded, shoving Booth forward with the barrel of the gun. The partners hesitated, unsure of his intention and the janitor gave Booth another prod towards Brennan, ordering again, "Hold her. Since you refused to die the way I originally chose, you will at least die together, with your transgression evident to whoever finds you. Put your arms around each other."

Uncertain and uncomfortable, Booth gently wrapped his arms round Brennan in a forced mockery of a lovers' embrace. She returned the gesture, noticing the burns on his skin but allowing him to hold her close. Watching over his shoulder, she saw the janitor raise the gun behind Booth's back, aiming to kill them both with one bullet, and heard her partner whisper softly in her ear, "Can you reach?"

Answering with an almost inperceptible nod, she moved closer to him, appearing to make the embrace more intimate. With a smirk of satisfaction, Normans moved his finger to the trigger, proclaiming, almost to himself, "The Golden Age will come ag-"

Before the final word left his mouth, Temperance's foot swung up from beside Booth, impacting hard with the old man's groin and causing him to drop the gun as his hands instinctively fell between his legs. They broke apart as he doubled up, groaning, and Booth moved behind the janitor, kicking him behind the knee with practised ease and pinning his arms behind his back.

Keeping a firm hold on the whimpering man, Booth glanced round the kitchen before nodding towards a shelf and asking urgently, "Bones, can you get some of that plastic wrap? I need something to restrain him."

Temperance did as requested, watching with strange detachment as her partner bound the man's hands together with the rolled up film and pushed him down to the floor as he gasped in pain from the unexpected kick. It was only when Booth turned back to her, concern in his eyes, that she realised that she too was breathing heavily, her heart pounding and the adrenaline still rushing through her system.

Offering her a half-smile, Booth said, his tone casual, "Nice kick, Bones, but you could've aimed for his stomach or something..."

She raised her eyebrows, smiling despite the severity of the situation. "You're feeling sorry for the man who tried to freeze, cook and shoot us?"

"Hey, I'm a guy, alright?" he shot back defensively. "Just seeing you do that makes me value my ability to have children." His smile faded as he looked more closely at Brennan, who was still pale and shivering slightly. "You know, we should really get you to a hospital."

"Me?" She gestured to his burned arms. "I think you need medical attention more than I do right now."

Booth shrugged, unwilling to admit that his arms seemed to have recalled they were in pain as she had spoken. "It's just a few burns; hypothermia beats that easily."

"What about him?" she questioned, avoiding any sort of resolution to the previous debate. "Don't we need to take him to the FBI?"

The agent sighed, reluctantly reminding himself that his oaths to protect and serve applied to the general public, not just Temperance Brennan, and replied with a nod, "Okay, I'll call the Bureau, have him brought in and then get you taken to the hospital."

She folded her arms stubbornly, her body language practically screaming _"Make me."_ Seeing this and deciding that Brennan's welfare trumped his natural instinct to win any argument, he relented, "Okay, I'll get us both taken to the hospital. Just to be sure."

Their conversation was interrupted by a shout from the incapacitated janitor, accompanied by a manic laugh. "You will pay! The impurity must be wiped out before the whole society is condemned to shame and degradation."

Booth looked down at him, a mixture of contempt and anger flashing in his eyes as he spoke, "I don't think I've ever been happier to say this to anyone. Mr Normans, you are under arrest for the murders of Matt Richards, Jessica Lynn, Chris Johnson and Daniel Barnes, as well as attempted murder, assault, kidnapping, false imprisonment..."


	12. Psychosis

"You should still be in hospital."

Standing behind the two-way mirror in the interrogation room, Booth looked over to the door and his recently discharged partner with a smirk, "Says Frosty the Snowman."

Brennan wrinkled her brow. "Who?"

The agent shook his head, gesturing to the thick file she held in her arms and replying, "How is it that you can write pages and pages of information by just looking at a skeleton but can't work out that "Frosty the Snowman" is a snowman called Frosty?" She opened her mouth to protest but Booth silenced her with another shake of his head, "Never mind. How are you feeling?"

She shrugged. "Fine. My body temperature's returned to normal and I'm keeping my fluid level up. There was no permanent damage to my soft tissue or brain functions so-"

"That's not what I meant, Bones." He turned to face her fully, his attention drawn away from the suspect in the next room. "You were drugged, frozen and nearly shot; that's a hell of a lot to go through in a few hours. You know you can talk to me about it if you want."

"Why, because you were drugged, cooked and nearly shot?" she replied, more harshly than she had intended.

Booth, however, had now learned to read her intentions instead of her tone and answered gently, "No, because I'm your partner. You know how partners are supposed to support each other? Well this is me, being supportive."

"I don't need support," Brennan stated simply. "We're both alive, the killer's been caught - everything's fine." She paused, realising the implication of Booth's words, and asked uncertainly, "Um, do you need support?"

Amused and faintly gratified at her attempt of traditional coworker interaction, Booth just smiled before putting her out of her misery. "I'm good, Bones. No support needed."

Slightly relieved at his answer, she asked again, "How are your burns? They looked to be second-degree from what I saw, meaning they wouldn't have been deep enough to numb the pain receptors."

"Guess I should've burned them more then," Booth said with a playful tone. "Could've saved me having to take a whole bunch of painkillers."

"You do know taking painkillers is preferable to having third-degree burns and a higher risk of scarring?"

He smirked. "I was joking, Bones. My arms are fine; the docs bandaged me up, gave me plenty of drugs and sent me on my way." Remembering his somewhat testy threats to the doctors on duty, he corrected, "Okay, not so much "sent me away" as "were persuaded to let me go"." Brennan rolled her eyes and the agent added defensively, "Hey, you probably did exactly the same thing."

Knowing he was right but not wanting to give him the satisfaction of showing it, Temperance promptly changed the subject as she nodded towards the man in the next room. "Has he said anything?"

"Not much yet. He's not denying anything and he's refused a lawyer, so all we need to do is go get a full confession." He looked at her large file again. "You got all your science stuff?"

"I have our findings, yes," Brennan answered emphatically, before seeing that Booth too was holding a single sheet of paper. "What's that?"

"Just some notes." Scanning the paper he held, he asked, seemingly out of the blue, "Did you know his first name is Christopher?"

She frowned. "How is that significant?"

Wordlessly, Booth passed her the paper. Still confused, she read the first line and sighed in realisation when she saw that it read, " **C** H **R** IST **O** PHER **NO** RMAN **S**." Shaking her head sadly, she queried, "Do you think that's why he chose to personify Cronos?"

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "But what do you say we go ask him?"

Without waiting for a response, Booth headed towards the door to the interrogation room and held it open for his partner. She entered, her expression sober, and sat opposite the elderly man who smiled in recognition. "Artemis."

His voice cold, Booth sat next to Brennan, and made a pointed introduction. "Christopher Normans, my name is Special Agent Seeley Booth and this is Dr Temperance Brennan. We'd like to ask you some questions about the events of the last few days."

Normans snorted in derision. "I know who you are, Agent Booth. I may be old but I'm not senile."

"Just psychotic?" Brennan asked coldly, before reverting to a more professional manner. "Mr Normans, you were issued with repeat prescriptions for Triazolam, a benzodiazepine used to treat insomnia. Can you explain why traces of this drug were found in some coffee cups at the Jeffersonian?"

"Because I used it to knock you out," he answered matter-of-factly. "It would've been hard to transport you two and Matt Richards if you had been conscious, and so I put some of my pills in your coffee to make it easier."

Surprised at his candor, Brennan continued to reveal her findings, "We also found traces of Matt Richards' and Agent Booth's hair in your cart."

He nodded. "Well, I couldn't exactly carry them myself, could I? I could just about manage to lift you into the freezer, but it was far easy to move the men in the cart."

"So you admit all the charges?" Booth asked casually, wanting clarification for the record. "You killed Matt Richards, Jessica Lynn, Chris Johnson and Daniel Barnes, as well as kidnapping, drugging and attempting to murder Dr Brennan and myself?"

"Yes," the janitor stated as though speaking to a child. "I'm proud of my actions - why should I deny them?"

The partners exchanged disbelieving glances and Booth spoke up again, wanting to provoke some sort of reaction other than smug satisfaction, "You have a son, Mr Normans?"

"No." The reply was instantaneous but Booth saw him visibly flinch.

Pressing on, he said with mock confusion, "That's not what my notes say here. According to your records, you have a thirty-one-year-old son named Donald who lived with you till six months ago. Must be kind of hard to forget someone who lived with you for thirty years."

"I don't have a son," he reiterated stubbornly.

Booth shrugged and leaned back in his chair. "You sure? Maybe you are getting senile after all..."

"I am not senile!" Normans barked suddenly, glaring at the agent. "I used to have a boy, but he died. I now have no son."

"There's no record of his death," the younger man said calmly, a hint of a challenge in his voice. "In fact, one of my colleagues spoke to him a few hours ago. He's alive and well and living up in Georgetown with his boyfriend, Sammy."

Booth got the reaction he was looking for. Normans lunged forward, leaning on the table with his eyes blazing. "No, he is not! My son was a good, dutiful boy who was dedicated to his father. He is not this disgusting pervert you describe!"

"Do you have problem with homosexuality, Mr Normans?" Brennan inquired calmly and he wheeled on her, furiously.

"It is a vice!" he spat, "A filthy disgrace that should not be permitted in civilised society! It must be purged; all such shameful impurities must be purged. Then and only then can the Golden Age be reclaimed."

Leaning forward, she asked with morbid curiosity, "That's why you did this? Your son moved out to be with his lover and so you started killing people?"

Filling in the gaps in Brennan's thought process, Booth elaborated, "Your son left you to live alone, so instead of blaming him, you blamed it on the fact that he left you for a man. You then set out to remove what you view as immorality, to what goal? To get your son back? Or to kill him eventually?"

Normans shook his head, looking down. "All must eventually be cleansed."

He offered no other explanation and Brennan moved on, looking at her notes. "Your first benzodiazepine prescription was issued soon after your son left, probably for insomnia. When did you stop taking your medication?"

Both Normans and Booth looked at her in surprise and she explained, taking care to use simpler terms, "To have enough to render three people unconscious, you must have saved up a supply. Also, Triazolam is reputed to have some serious side effects if use is abruptly terminated." She met the old man's eyes. "Psychotic side effects."

Understanding his partner's point, Booth repeated quietly, "When did you stop taking the tranquilizers?"

The janitor sat up straight and proud, his eyes forward. "I purged myself of the need for modern drugs after one month."

"And when did you first start wanting to kill people?" Temperance asked simply. Booth glanced over at her, preparing to scold her for asking questions more suited to a professional psychiatrist, but to his surprise, Normans responded.

"I planned it all very carefully. Everything was supposed to happen quickly, so that the Olympians would fall before anyone could stop me." He smiled, almost wistfully, at the memory. "The Golden Age would've come soon..."

"Did this planning involve Jim Roberts?"

He smirked at Booth's question and shook his head, "Not knowingly. I borrowed his fishing net and his keys, but do you really think that idiot could've helped me?"

Not answering him, Booth scanned through his notes. "On Mr Roberts' list of acquaintances at Little Hunting Creek, there's a mention of a man named Chris who works at a school. Is that anything to do with you?"

The old man gave a derisive snort. "That would be me. Jimmy was never told my surname, and I guess when I told him I was a janitor, he assumed that I worked in a school. Fool."

Booth nodded, making a mental note to have the unfortunate Jim Roberts cleared of all charges. Leaning back, he asked for the last time, "I think we have all we need here - is there anything else you'd like to add before I hand the case over to the DA for prosecution?"

Like her partner, Temperance eyed the elderly killer with interest, knowing that Booth's question was intended to give the man a chance to express remorse. Normans looked between them both, before saying seriously, his eyes dark, "I don't regret my actions - I was working towards a noble cause. The younger generation is rife with debauchery and shameful behavior. I still believe that if that was removed, the world would be a better place. Drunkenness, adultery, homosexuality; these are all vices which will one day bring society to its knees. Cronos ruled in a Golden Age; I want to recapture that."

Brennan felt a slight twinge of disappointment at his lack of remorse and started to get to her feet when he heard Booth laugh softly under his breath, shaking his head as he addressed the murderer, "You need to read your myths again, Mr Normans."

The man looked up at Booth, taken aback by his comment and the agent explained, "Cronos, the man you're trying to emulate, was no saint. He overthrew his own father, castrated him, before seizing control for himself. You complain about the younger generation when you're no better. Your so-called "Golden Age" was built on impurity, a son turning against his father."

He met his eyes, speaking honestly, "Admittedly, this generation has its flaws, but none has ever been perfect. It's impossible to moderate the entire population; adultery and alcoholism will probably always be part of society and have been for hundreds of years. People will always make mistakes and to think otherwise is naive; there's a reason the Golden Age is a _mythical_ concept."

Normans fell silent and Booth too got to his feet as Brennan added, "And for your information, Mr Normans, homosexuality should not be counted as a vice. Attraction between humans is based on many variables and sex is not always an over-riding factor. Families are supposed to support each other; maybe you should try being supportive to your son."

Finished, she headed for the door. Booth followed, smiling to himself at the irony in his partner now being the authority on support in relationships. Together they left the interrogation room, leaving Christopher Normans sitting in silence without a comeback.


	13. Epilogue

"What meal is this?"

Sitting in the diner, Booth turned to Brennan in confusion, "It's 9.30am - it's breakfast."

The anthropologist stared into her coffee, clearly deep in thought. "But breakfast is generally eaten after you've been to sleep. Technically this should be dinner, or possibly brunch since it's now mid-morning."

"Bones, stop trying to categorise my pie."

She looked up at him, snapped out of her contemplations by his reply. "I was just making conversation."

"Well, can we _converse_ about something other than my breakfast/dinner?"

"It was an interesting question," Brennan replied defensively, pouting slightly at his mocking, and he gave a long-suffering sigh.

"Okay, you've now invented "dinfast." Can we please move on?"

Deciding on the fairly safe topic of the heatwave, she ventured, "It's still pretty hot outside."

Booth chuckled, looking down. "I was shut in an oven, Bones. I swear I'll never complain about the heat again."

She smiled briefly, taking another sip of her coffee before moving on to a new topic. "Do you think Normans will be able to plead insanity?"

Putting his fork down on his plate, Booth turned to face her with another sigh, "I thought the point of this dinfast was to take our minds of the case? You bringing up Normans is kind of doing the opposite."

Temperance frowned. "It's natural to make conversation about recent events that we have in common, and since Normans tried to kill both of us tonight, it seems logical that he should be discussed."

Knowing there was no way he could win now that she had introduced the dreaded l-word into the argument, Booth reluctantly returned to the earlier question, "Insanity could be the right defence. After what you said about the side-effects of the drug withdrawal, it's a strong possibility."

"There isn't enough scientific evidence to prove that Triazolam actually causes mental instability," she stated simply. "It isn't accepted as a defence in court."

The agent twirled his fork, staring at his pie as he considered her words before asking, "What do you think?"

"I think he is insane," Brennan said decisively. Booth gestured for her to continue, his mouth full of pie, and she obliged, "At first, he might have been considered reasonable - his plans were well-thought out and there was a complex symbolic reason behind each killing rather than the work of a madman. But after what he did to us, I'm not so sure anymore."

It was Booth's turn to frown. "How is that different? He still identified us with Greek gods and he tried to kill us in a symbolic way. It's not like you to take something personally..."

"I don't. I'm not," Brennan said firmly. "But there's a difference in the pattern. From what you told me, all the other killings were based on a fault in the character of the deity that he then reflected in the victim. For example, Zeus was an infamous adulterer and so Matt Richards was killed because he happened to have affairs too."

"So what's different about us?" he inquired, still shoveling down his pie.

Temperance swiveled to face him as she spoke seriously, "You said that Apollo and Artemis never did anythng wrong. Or, at least, they never slept together. Normans targeted us because he thought we were having an inappropriate sexual relationship and then reflected this back onto the deities when it should've been the other way round."

"How does that make him crazy?" Booth asked, perplexed. "He still thought the victims were impure..."

"Yes, but usually both the gods and victims had to be impure. This shows his mental state was deteriorating, in that he was unable to distinguish between reality and mythology. He thought he saw us having an affair and so projected that belief onto his image of Artemis and Apollo, thus thinking that they too were sleeping together. He was deluded, and he could use that in his defence."

She looked over at her partner, seeing that he had stopped eating and was now grinning at her. "You know, as much as you say you hate psychology, you've been thinking about it a hell of a lot."

"Haven't you?" she countered, her tone telling him that it was the obvious thing to think about.

Booth shook his head, digging into his pie again as he said, "I was thinking more about why he tried to kill us."

"That's what I just sai-"

"Not in that way, Bones," he interrupted, smiling. "I meant the whole me-and-you affair reasoning."

"Oh." She paused. "What's there to think about? There was a misinterpretation of actions; he just drew the wrong conclusion."

"He's not the only one," her partner said quietly. Brennan waited expectantly and he continued, "You must know what people think, Bones. It's expected at the FBI, where most of the guys think I'm having an affair with Mrs Robinson if my mom ever comes to town, but it's even happening at the lab now."

"Mrs Robinson?" she queried, missing the vital point of the conversation. "Why isn't your mother called Mrs Booth?"

He waved away her question, turning back to his coffee. "Never mind, Bones." Smiling, he added playfully, "It just kind of sucks that we're getting the murder-attempt parts of a relationship, without, you know, the perks."

"Oh, you mean sexual perks?" she asked openly and Booth's coffee ended up down his windpipe. She smirked as he coughed violently, still taken aback by her comment. "Sorry, I forgot you don't like to talk about sex."

Regaining the ability to breathe, Booth tried to cover himself. "I didn't just mean sex, Bones. There are more perks to a relationship than that." Temperance looked at him with genuine confusion, and he explained, "You know, like spending time with someone, just the two of you. Or having someone there when you come home at night. Or being able to talk comfortably about anything with them."

She pursed her lips, considering, before eventually asking, "Don't we do that?"

"Do what?"

"Talk comfortably to each other about anything." She reconsidered. "Well, except sex, but that's only because you don't want to."

"I don't want to have sex?" he asked with a strange pang of anxiety.

"You don't want to talk about sex," Temperance clarified, before returning to her original point. "But other than that, we definitely talk to each other." She offered him a small smile. "At least we have one perk."

Booth returned the smile. "Yeah, that makes up for the near-death experiences."

Unsure if he was being sarcastic, she said quietly, "We can work on having more perks."

Surprised at her response, Booth repeated softly, still smiling, "We can."

There was a brief silence as they both returned to their coffees, replaying the conversation in their minds and trying to fathom its meaning. Finally, they both drained their cups at the same time and Booth got to his feet with a yawn. "Ready, Bones?"

Temperance nodded. "Ready when you are."


End file.
